HE  TORCH 

HERBERT  M-  HOPKINS 


4 


THE  TORCH 


BY 
HERBERT  M.  HOPKINS 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT   1903 
THE   BOBBS-MERRILL   COMPANY 


OCTOBER 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.  N.  Y. 


TO 
GEORGE  WILLIAMSON  SMITH,  D.  D.,  LL.  D. 

PRESIDENT  OF 

TRINITY  COLLEGE 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

AS  A  SLIGHT  TOKEN 

OF  AFFECTION 

AND  ESTEEM 


CONTENTS 

I    ENTER,  THE  HERO  L 

II    WITH  THE  PROCESSION  *6 

III  THE  PUBLIC  PULSE  31 

IV  THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS  51 
V    A  HINT  OF  HIDDEN  MILLIONS  67 

VI    TUPPER'S  WIDOW  75 

VII    THE  FIGURE  OF  A  DREAM  89 

VIII    A  Bow  OF  MAGENTA  RIBBON  97 

IX    A  FREE  TONGUE  IO3 

X    THE  FAIRY  GODMOTHER  n° 

XI    ENIGMAS  I25 

XII    A  JOLLY  GOOD  FELLOW  137 

• 

XIII  A  MATCHING  OF  WITS  H5 

XIV  OIL  ON  THE  WATERS  155 
XV    THE  CHARM  THAT  FAILED  165 

XVI    AT  THE  PLAY  l8u 

XVII    THE  MAN  IN  THE  ROAD  19° 

XVIII    THE  DECIDING  VOTE  205 

XIX    THE  WRITING  ON  THE  WALL  217 


CONTENTS 

XX  MORE  GAMES  THAN  ONE  229 

XXI  THE  BATTLE  is  JOINED  240 

XXII  VOLUNTEERS  253 

XXIII  THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY  267 

XXIV  A  NEW  CHAMPION  279 
XXV  BROUGHT  TO  BAY  295 

XXVI  A  BROKEN  VASE  306 

XXVII  AN  ANCHOR  TO  WINDWARD  317 

XXVIII  FORTUNE'S  DARLING  330 

XXIX  A  FRANK  UNDERSTANDING  343 

XXX  THE  PROSPERITY  OF  A  JEST  352 

XXXI  THE  LOST  LEADER  368 

XXXII  AT  EIGHT  TO-NIGHT  379 

XXXIII  THE  FALL  OF  THE  CURTAIN  389 


THE   TORCH 


THE    TORCH 

CHAPTER  I 

ENTER,    THE    HERO 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  put  down  her  novel  and  looked 
out  of  the  window,  resolving  for  the  twentieth  time 
to  abandon  all  pretense  of  following  the  multitudi- 
nous trails  of  modern  fiction.  She  found  life  itself 
much  more  absorbing  than  any  attempt  to  portray 
it.  As  she  watched  her  gardener  pushing  the  mower 
back  and  forth  across  the  lawn  her  active  mind 
seized  upon  even  that  simple  operation  as  a  thing  of 
passing  interest.  There  was  something  in  the  work 
that  appealed  to  her  practical  nature;  it  was  fresh, 
vigorous  and  clean,  and  showed  immediate  results. 

She  threw  open  the  window  to  warn  the  man 
that  he  was  cutting  too  near  her  flower  beds  and 
paused  to  see  that  the  warning  was  heeded.  The 
rising  breeze  of  the  late  September  afternoon  blew 
her  fine,  reddish  hair  about  her  face  and  brought  the 
quick  color  to  her  fair  skin.  For  some  time  she 
stood,  breathing  deep  with  a  sense  of  infinite  refresh- 
ment, her  restless  eyes  searching  the  shadowed 

i 


2  THE   TORCH 

spaces  of  the  quiet  street  and  the  front  yards  of 
her  neighbors  opposite.  The  only  sounds  she  heard 
were  the  monotonous  whir  of  the  lawn-mower  and 
the  shrill  treble  of  the  locusts  in  the  trees.  All 
Argos  seemed  asleep. 

Presently  she  saw  Professor  Plow  coming  down 
the  street  with  his  long,  swinging  stride,  and  drew 
back  behind  the  curtains.  She  dreaded  a  call  that 
might  result  in  another  proposal  for  her  hand.  Even 
her  present  dullness  was  preferable  to  another  argu- 
ment with  him  on  that  subject,  and  she  breathed 
a  sigh  of  relief  when  she  saw  that  his  quick  glance 
failed  to  detect  her  presence  behind  the  swaying 
curtains. 

She  wondered,  as  often  before,  how  a  man  with 
such  a  fine  head  and  such  an  athletic  frame  could  re- 
main indifferent  to  the  little  touches  that  would 
make  him  an  attractive,  even  a  remarkable,  figure. 
He  was  the  most  interesting  personality  she  had  met 
in  the  university  town.  She  felt  that  a  man  of  his 
force  and  personal  magnetism  ought  to  have  risen 
higher  than  a  college  professorship,  and  ascribed 
his  lack  of  worldly  success  to  a  lack  of  worldly 
sense. 

As  she  watched  him  striding  down  the  street  she 
saw  her  stepson  coming  in  the  opposite  direction 
with  the  short,  quick  step  and  erect  bearing  that  al- 
ways reminded  her  of  his  father.  The  boy  gave  his 
professor  a  prim,  military  salute  as  they  passed. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  smiled,  but  without  tenderness, 
at  the  memory  of  the  tall  and  courteous  soldier,  so 
much  her  senior,  who  had  won  everything  from  her 


ENTER,    THE   HERO  3 

except  her  love.  She  hoped,  when  she  married  him, 
that  she  could  give  her  love  in  time,  but  she  dis- 
covered later  that  it  was  too  great  a  gift  to  bestow 
on  one  who  had  no  room  to  receive  it.  Her  na- 
ture was  generous,  but  egotistic.  She  was  one  who 
must  be  sure  of  great  devotion  to  herself  before  she 
could  give.  Perhaps  the  colonel  had  loved  his  first 
wife,  but,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  his  mind 
seemed  too  full  of  ideas  of  duty,  of  honor,  of  dress, 
to  admit  a  serious  rival.  His  punctilious  gallantry 
began  to  pall  upon  her ;  she  felt  that  it  had  no  more 
value  than  his  salute  to  his  general.  Now  he  was 
gone,  having  left  her  a  fortune  and  the  care  of  his 
son. 

The  boy  had  inherited  his  mother's  tendency  to 
consumption,  and  Mrs.  Van  Sant  decided  to  take 
him  to  the  lofty  prairies  where  she  had  spent  her 
girlhood.  In  that  bracing  air  she  felt  he  would  be 
safe.  During  the  ten  or  twelve  years  of  her  absence 
the  State  University  had  grown  apace,  and  she  was 
glad  to  have  Robert  enter  as  a  student.  At  first  she 
hoped  he  might  catch  some  of  the  largeness  and  en- 
thusiasm of  the  West,  but  already  she  was  beginning 
to  see  that  it  was  impossible.  He  was  ridiculously 
like  his  father.  The  small  cup  could  not  hold  the 
contents  of  a  pail.  The  only  thing  in  the  university 
that  appealed  to  him  was  the  military  drill.  She 
found  it  difficult  to  take  an  interest  in  his  meager  na- 
ture, but  a  sense  of  duty  kept  her  to  her  post.  Late- 
ly she  had  become  interested  in  the  social  life  of  the 
place.  The  State  University  was  much  more  im- 
portant than  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood  when  she 


used  to  drive  over  from  the  capital  to  attend  the 
students'  dances.  Now  it  was  not  the  students,  but 
the  faculty,  whom  she  found  interesting,  and  al- 
ready her  hands  were  on  the  reins  of  social  leader- 
ship. 

Robert  came  into  the  room  and  put  his  books  care- 
fully on  the  table.  Mrs.  Van  Sant  thought  that  a 
real,  live  freshman  would  have  thrown  them  into  a 
corner,  but  she  could  scarcely  advise  him  to  be  bois- 
terous and  disorderly.  She  was  glad  to  note  that  he 
looked  fresh  and  well,  though  she  had  too  much  ex- 
perience to  assume  that  high  color  is  necessarily  an 
index  of  good  health.  They  surveyed  each  other 
coolly,  but  without  animosity  or  restraint. 

"The  new  president  is  coming  to-night,"  he  an- 
nounced. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  answered.  "His  arrival 
has  been  heralded  so  often  that  I  really  began  to  sus- 
pect he  was  a  myth.  What  kind  of  man  is  he? 
Have  you  heard  anything  interesting  about  him?" 

He  repeated  some  gossip  picked  up  on  the  campus, 
but  told  her  nothing  she  had  not  already  read  in  the 
papers.  A  categorical  account  of  his  degrees  and 
books  left  him  still  a  very  nebulous  person.  She 
knew  that  he  was  a  bachelor  and  thirty-seven  years 
of  age,  but  there  were  many  bachelors  of  that  age, 
and  these  facts  in  themselves  were  no  guaranty  that 
she  would  find  him  interesting. 

"I  must  take  my  ride,"  Robert  said  presently, 
anxious  to  be  off.  He  hesitated  at  the  door  and 
then  turned.  "Shall  I  have  your  horse  brought 


ENTER,    THE    HERO  5 

around?"  he  asked.  "Would  you  like  to  go  with 
me?" 

"Thank  you,  Robert,"  she  answered.  "I  don't 
feel  ambitious  enough  to  change  my  dress,  and  I 
won't  keep  you  waiting."  She  smiled  brightly  at 
his  look  of  relief  as  he  left  the  room. 

"I  bore  him  as  much  as  he  bores  me,"  she  admit- 
ted. "Poor  Robert !  He's  always  so  polite,  and  as 
dry  as  ashes." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  she  saw  him  canter  slowly 
away  on  his  horse.  Even  the  well-groomed  animal 
seemed  to  share  the  rider's  personality  and  to  step 
with  a  certain  mincing  propriety.  A  sudden  eager- 
ness for  motion  and  fresh  air  came  over  her.  She 
flung  on  her  wraps  and  hurried  from  the  house, 
drawing  on  her  gloves  as  she  walked  toward  the 
gate. 

When  once  in  the  street  she  felt  in  better  humor. 
She  walked  rapidly  and  soon  reached  the  great,  slop- 
ing campus  of  the  university.  As  she  glanced  up 
at  the  long  row  of  dingy  buildings  that  crowned  the 
hill  she  smiled  with  vague  apology.  At  the  moment 
the  institution  looked  like  some  forlorn  asylum. 
There  was  no  individuality  in  the  brown,  weather- 
beaten  buildings.  One  object,  however,  incongru- 
ously beautiful,  broke  the  level  sky-line  of  the  roofs. 
The  tower  of  the  library  sprang  up  against  the  blue, 
and  even  as  she  looked  the  chimes  shook  down  a 
shower  of  sixteen  sweet  notes,  followed  by  five 
brazen  beats  of  the  great  bell.  The  chimes  had  been 
given  by  the  parents  of  a  student  who  had  died  in  his 


6  THE   TORCH 

second  year,  that  they  might  ring  out  his  memory 
in  the  place  he  had  loved. 

"If  anything  happens  to  Robert,"  she  reflected 
wickedly,  "I'll  endow  a  chair  of  Pedantry  and  Pro- 
priety in  his  memory." 

The  autumn  sun,  dropping  lower,  suddenly  smote 
fire  from  the  windows  of  the  tower  until,  to  her 
swiftly  changing  mood,  it  symbolized  the  torch  of 
learning  uplifted  in  those  western  prairies.  She 
paused  to  watch  the  lower  windows  catch  the  glow, 
and  soon  all  the  buildings  seemed  aflame.  Thin 
streams  of  students  began  to  pour  from  the  doors  of 
the  recitation  halls,  as  if  escaping  from  a  conflagra- 
tion within.  The  women,  for  the  most  part,  went 
homeward,  book-laden  and  serious,  but  the  men 
rushed  off  to  the  football  field  to  watch  the  practice 
of  the  team.  She  heard  their  jokes  and  laughter, 
and  saw  the  dim,  grimy  figures  of  the  players  that 
swayed  and  pushed  in  the  lengthening  shadows  be- 
low the  hill.  Through  the  still  evening  the  hoarse 
commands  of  the  coach  came  to  her  ears,  and  even 
the  grinding  thud  of  the  canvas-clad  young  giants. 
The  'varsity  was  rushing  the  scrub  team  down  the 
field.  In  another  moment  there  would  be  a  touch- 
down, and  the  belated  students  broke  into  a  run, 
eager  to  join  in  the  cheering  of  the  watchful  throng 
that  filled  the  benches. 

In  the  moving  picture  of  life  before  her  Mrs.  Van 
Sant  caught  sight  of  her  friend,  Nicholas  Lee,  the 
professor  of  English  literature,  coming  down  the 
path  with  a  companion. 


ENTER,    THE   HERO  7 

Susanne  Van  Sant  and  Nicholas  Lee  had  known 
each  other  almost  from  infancy.  They  were  brought 
up  in  neighboring  houses  in  the  capital,  and  contin- 
ued their  acquaintance  through  the  high  school. 
The  young  girl,  with  her  wonderful  braid  of  auburn 
hair,  practised  her  coquetry  on  the  slim,  angular 
youth,  and  was  the  torment  of  his  life  up  to  the  time 
she  went  east  and  left  him  a  freshman  in  the  State 
University.  The  change  she  discovered  in  him  at 
their  meeting  again  had  not  yet  lost  its  novelty. 
That  nose,  which  seemed  so  preposterously  salient 
in  the  days  of  his  hobbledehoy,  now  suggested  an- 
cestors, and  the  tongue  she  once  thought  so  rude 
had  become  the  ready  servant  of  a  discerning  mind. 
His  enemies  said  that  he  had  been  pitchforked  into  a 
full  professorship  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  because 
of  his  social  connections  and  the  favor  of  a  promi- 
nent regent.  Between  him  and  Mrs.  Van  Sant 
there  existed  a  freemasonry,  based  on  a  humorous 
memory  of  their  early  love. 

As  the  two  men  drew  nearer  she  recognized  Doc- 
tor Trumbull,  an  assistant  professor  of  Greek,  a  tall, 
foreign-looking  young  man,  dark-skinned,  with 
black  mustachios  and  an  imperial  that  had  won  him 
the  sobriquet  of  "the  count."  Her  acquaintance 
with  Trumbull  was  so  slight  that  she  would  have 
passed  them  with  a  mere  nod  of  recognition,  but 
Lee  was  in  high  spirits  and  would  not  be  denied. 

"I  know  you're  going  down  to  see  the  new  presi- 
dent come  in,"  he  cried.  "You  might  take  us  under 
your  protection." 


8  THE   TORCH 

"I  have  no  such  intention,"  she  retorted.  "I'm 
merely  out  for  a  walk,  but  I  see  no  objection  if  you 
wish  to  accompany  me." 

"I'm  suffering  from  an  infectious  fever,"  Lee 
said  whimsically,  as  the  three  went  on  together,  "a 
fever  of  expectancy.  Do  you  catch  the  excited  at- 
mosphere of  this  campus?"  He  pointed  with  his 
cane  to  the  amphitheater  of  wooden  benches  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  "The  authorities  have  taken 
long  chances  with  the  weather  in  planning  an  open- 
air  inaugural,  but  no  building  of  our  future  great 
university  can  hold  the  crowd." 

They  continued  their  way  through  the  campus 
and  along  the  brow  of  the  hill  on  which  the  univer- 
sity buildings  stood.  Mrs.  Van  Sant  walked  be- 
tween them,  a  spray  of  goldenrod  in  her  hand,  her 
naturally  fine  color  heightened  by  the  cool  air  of  the 
September  evening.  Lee's  glance  paid  her  a  per- 
sonal tribute  of  admiration,  for  he  appreciated  every 
detail  of  her  attractive  figure,  slender,  clean-stepping 
and  neat.  She  seemed  to  drop  ten  of  her  thirty 
years  during  her  climb  up  the  hill. 

The  path  led  upward  until  they  stood  on  a  level 
with  the  library  tower.  Here  they  paused  by  com- 
mon consent  to  look  down  on  the  scene.  They 
saw  the  sloping  grounds  of  the  university  crossed  by 
straight  long  paths  of  yellow  gravel.  The  pine 
boards  of  the  amphitheater  appeared  a  dim  patch 
against  the  darkening  earth.  The  football  field  had 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  small  corral.  The  practice 
of  the  team  was  over,  and  the  crowd  of  spectators 
began  to  pour  from  the  gates  and  trek  homeward 


ENTER,    THE   HERO  9 

like  ants  across  the  campus.  The  great  sweep  of 
lowlands  beyond  was  bare,  wind-swept,  rilled  with 
strange  lights  and  shadows,  a  scene  to  awaken  in 
the  memory  odds  and  ends  of  sad  verses.  The  little 
town  of  Argos  was  like  a  dark  green  checkerboard, 
pricked  out  against  the  prairie  by  the  first  white 
twinkling  of  electric  lights.  Far  off  they  saw  the 
yellow  gleam  of  the  great  river.  A  steamboat 
turned  the  bend,  crossed  a  strip  of  bright  water,  and 
was  gone.  On  its  banks  crouched  the  capital  of  the 
state,  the  purple  smoke  of  its  chimneys  mingling 
with  the  clouds  that  closed  in  upon  the  setting  sun. 
The  gilded  dome  of  the  State  House,  rising  ghost- 
like, seemed  to  float  above  the  thousands  of  roofs, 
suspended  in  the  murky  air. 

"How  melancholy  and  lonely  our  little  Argos 
seems  now !"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  said.  "Perhaps  I  am 
lacking  in  soul,  but  a  sunset  in  the  country  always 
depresses  me." 

"It's  half-past  five  now,"  Trumbull  put  in,  with  a 
brusqueness  of  manner  that  she  already  recognized 
as  characteristic.  "If  we're  going  to  meet  the  train 
we  must  be  moving." 

"I  see  you  have  no  sympathy  with  my  sunset 
musings,"  she  murmured,  smiling.  As  she  noted 
his  indifference  she  wondered  that  Lee  should  find 
him  congenial. 

"Argos  may  seem  small  and  lonely  from  this  dis- 
tance," Lee  remarked  as  they  began  to  descend  the 
hill,  "but  it  will  soon  be  a  very  interesting  place  to 
live  in.  Everybody  will  fall  over  everybody  else  in 
his  desire  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  new  potentate. 


io  THE   TORCH 

No  more  running  to  the  regents.  Babington  is  to 
have  all  the  power;  he's  to  be  It.  We're  to  be  run 
on  'business  principles,'  I  hear."  He  flung  back  his 
head  and  laughed  scornfully.  "It  will  be  worth  the 
price  of  admission  to  see  Fyffe  and  Plow  in  the  race 
for  favor.  It  was  owing  to  Plow's  skill  as  a  wire- 
puller that  Babington  was  called.  Plow  told  me  yes- 
terday how  he  and  'Bab'  were  classmates  in  college, 
how  they  formed  the  battery  of  the  nine,  and  how  he 
broke  his  finger  taking  a  hot  ball  off  the  bat.  He'll 
play  Pylades  to  the  president's  Orestes." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  Trumbull  protested.  "If 
Plow  worked  for  Babington  it  was  because  he 
thought  him  a  good  man." 

"Please,  Mr.  Trumbull,"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  inter- 
posed, "let  Mr.  Lee  have  his  little  gossip;  he  enjoys 
it.  Anyhow,  one  may  have  mixed  motives.  Per- 
haps the  truth  lies  betwixt  and  between." 

Lee  turned  upon  her  with  his  charming  and  cyn- 
ical smile. 

"I  could  even  tell  you  more  did  I  not  know  your 
rooted  aversion  to  personalities,"  he  suggested. 

"I'll  relent  in  this  case,"  she  returned,  "since  the 
personalities  are  not  about  myself;  and  I  know 
you're  not  unwilling  to  tell.  I  will  even  confess  that 
I  asked  Mr.  Plow  a  question  or  two.  He  told  me  the 
new  president  was  an  authority  on  the  Eastern  ques- 
tion, and  offered  to  lend  me  one  of  his  books.  But 
I  suppose  a  man  like  Mr.  Plow  never  knows  how 
another  man  looks." 

"Naturally,"  said  Lee,  "since  he  never  takes 
thought  for  his  own  appearance.  But  to  go  back  to 


II 


my  story.  Plow  told  me  that  Babington  was  the  son 
of  a  missionary  in  China.  That's  how  he  comes  to 
know  so  much  about  the  Eastern  question.  Plow's 
father  was  a  blacksmith,  you  know." 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  answered.  "That's  interest- 
ing. But  don't  let  me  interrupt  you." 

"Well,  they  supported  themselves  in  college  by 
running  a  milk  and  butter  business,  and  so  the  fel- 
lows called  them  the  buttery  of  the  nine,  instead  of 
the  battery.  Plow  is  perfectly  devoted  to  him.  He 
has  even  forgotten  the  iniquities  of  the  trusts  for  the 
time  being.  He  has  been  taking  everybody  into  his 
confidence.  He  says  Babington  is  one  of  the  great- 
est men  that  ever  lived,  that  he  has  managed  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  in  the  fifteen  years  since  he  left 
college,  'even  in  these  days  of  great  combinations 
that  destroy  competition  and  crush  out  individual- 
ity.' And  our  professor  of  political  economy  has 
shown  himself  a  true  Irishman.  He  pulled  wires 
in  a  way  to  make  a  Tammany  Hall  politician  green 
with  envy.  There  isn't  a  regent  he  hasn't  seen.  In 
fact  Babington  owes  him  a  debt  of  gratitude.  Plow 
ought  to  have  gone  into  politics.  He  could  have 
been  governor  of  the  state  by  this  time  if  he  hadn't 
mistaken  his  calling." 

Trumbull  cut  a  weed  low  with  an  irritated  swing 
of  his  cane. 

"Babington  may  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude,"  he 
declared,  "but  Plow  isn't  the  kind  of  man  to  demand 
payment." 

Lee  glanced  quickly  at  Mrs.  Van  Sant  for  her  ap- 
preciation. 


12  THE   TORCH 

"I  rack  poor  Trumbtill's  soul  with  my  scandalous 
imaginings.  Well,  let  us  put  Plow  on  the  pedestal 
where  be  belongs.  I  waive  the  point.  I  will  even 
go  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  or  Everett  might  have 
made  a  very  respectable  president  had  there  been 
that  absence  of  jealousy  in  the  faculty  that  ought 
to  characterize  a  Christian  community.  But  Fyffe 
is  a  horse  of  a  different  color.  He  will  certainly 
enter  the  race  for  favor  early.  He  will  show 
the  president  his  latest  unpronounceable  insect 
through  the  microscope.  He  thinks  bugs  are  the 
most  important  things  in  the  educational  world,  and 
he  will  know  where  to  go  to  get  an  appropriation  for 
his  biological  laboratory.  Have  you  seen  his  polli- 
wogs  and  goldfish  swimming  in  a  glass  tank  against 
the  sunlight?  It's  a  beautiful  sight.  But,  to  step 
from  polliwogs  to  politics,  our  republic  of  letters 
will  become  a  despotism,  perhaps  a  benevolent  des- 
potism; it  all  depends  on  the  character  of  the  des- 
pot. He  ought  to  be  benevolent,  for  he  will  get 
a  house  and  ten  thousand  a  year,  a  good  deal  more 
than  the  governor  of  the  state.  He  came  high, 
but  I  suppose  we  had  to  have  him,  to  put  an  end 
to  the  squabbles  in  the  faculty  and  to  make  a  showy 
head  to  the  university.  The  regents  will  know 
where  to  place  the  responsibility  now  if  anything 
goes  wrong." 

"I  think  the  job  is  worth  ten  thousand  a  year," 
Trumbull  declared. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Lee  retorted  delightedly,  "you 
have  never  felt  the  pinch  of  poverty  and  you  have  no 
sense  of  money  values.  Ten  cents  or  ten  thousand 


ENTER,    THE   HERO  13 

dollars,  it's  all  one  to  your  plutocratic  eye.  What 
about  the  poor  devils  of  instructors  toiling  along  on 
nine  hundred  or  a  thousand  a  year,  less  than  the  sal- 
ary of  any  green  graduate  who  teaches  in  a  high 
school?  That  ten  thousand  looks  big  to  them.  As 
sure  as  I'm  a  prophet,  there'll  be  trouble  in  the  camp 
if  the  hand  of  the  despot  waxes  heavy." 

"I  wish  I  could  take  part  in  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Van 
Sant  gaily. 

"You  can,"  Lee  returned,  looking  at  her  with  his 
significant  smile.  She  ignored  the  suggestion  she 
understood  so  well,  and  Trumbull  had  no  idea  of  the 
little  byplay — his  friend's  implication  that  she  might 
marry  him  and  thus  become  an  integral  part  of  the 
university  life. 

As  they  entered  the  street  that  led  to  the  station 
they  were  absorbed  into  an  ever  increasing  crowd 
converging  toward  the  same  destination. 

"Here's  where  my  inches  come  in,"  said  Lee,  put- 
ting on  his  glasses  and  looking  over  the  heads  of  the 
people.  The  shops  were  alight,  and  the  merchants 
stood  in  their  doors  to  watch  the  crowd  pass  by.  It 
was  a  homelike  and  comfortable  vista.  Mrs.  Van 
Sant's  spirits,  oppressed  by  the  solemnity  of  the  open 
country,  revived.  She  enjoyed  all  the  life  of  the 
street :  the  whiff  of  fresh  bread  from  the  bakery,  the 
sight  of  autumn  vegetables  piled  high  in  front  of 
the  grocer's  shop,  the  rows  of  books  in  the  station- 
er's window. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  lost  on  a  desert  island," 
she  remarked,  gaily,  "and  had  just  come  home  to 
comfort  and  to  civilization." 


14  THE   TORCH 

"Thank  you,"  Lee  returned.  "I  did  flatter  myself 
that  you  had  been  listening  to  some  entertaining 
conversation.  However,  you  deprived  me  of  the 
prop  of  vanity  years  ago." 

They  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  expectant  crowd  as 
the  train  drew  up  at  the  station.  The  old  president 
of  the  university  and  Professor  Plow  were  in  wait- 
ing with  a  carriage.  In  the  light  of  the  station  lamps 
they  saw  the  new  president's  tall  figure,  surmounted 
by  a  silk  hat,  step  from  the  train.  In  a  moment  his 
old  classmate  was  at  his  side  with  a  shout  of  wel- 
come. The  two  men  shook  hands. 

"Hello  there,  Plow !"  the  newcomer  cried. 

The  crowd  caught  sight  of  his  pleasant  face  and 
heard  his  hearty  laugh.  They  felt  a  glow  of  sym- 
pathy and  pride.  As  the  professor  helped  his  friend 
into  the  carriage  the  students  gave  them  a  rousing 
cheer.  They  looked  like  sons  of  Anak,  and  the 
vehicle  rocked  with  their  weight.  The  crowd 
cheered  again,  giving  the  college  yell,  followed  by 
the  name  of  Babington.  The  new  president  doffed 
his  hat  and  half  arose,  as  if  to  make  a  speech.  Ap- 
parently he  thought  better  of  it,  for  he  resumed  his 
seat  beside  his  hosts,  and  the  carriage  was  driven 
rapidly  away. 

During  the  next  hour  professors  were  called  from 
the  table  to  answer  the  telephone  bell  and  learned 
that  the  new  president  had  arrived.  They  in  turn 
rang  up  their  friends  and  commented  on  the  news. 
The  students  were  all  agog  with  curiosity,  excite- 
ment and  emulous  approval.  From  the  fraternity 
tables  to  the  great  dining  hall  the  word  was  sent 


ENTER,    THE   HERO  15 

that  athletics  would  now  have  a  boom  unprecedented 
in  the  history  of  the  university. 

Trumbull  and  Lee,  equally  interested,  extricated 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  from  the  meshes  of  the  crowd,  and 
accompanied  her  to  her  door. 


CHAPTER  II 

WITH    THE   PROCESSION 

The  day  of  the  inauguration  dawned  with  a  chilly 
wind  that  boded  ill  for  the  ceremonies.  Soft,  fluffy 
vapor  began  to  trail  across  the  sky,  growing  darker 
and  more  ominous  as  the  hour  drew  near.  About 
half-past  nine  the  faculty  assembled  in  front  of  the 
library  and  prepared  to  march  to  the  theater  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill.  Their  academic  regalia  made  a 
brave  show,  for  the  various  colors  of  the  long  silk 
hoods  represented  the  chief  universities  of  Germany 
and  America  and  the  gold  tassel  of  the  doctorate 
nodded  on  many  a  mortar-board.  The  lecturers 
from  the  departments  of  medicine  and  law  in  the 
capital  were  also  present,  as  well  as  many  of  the 
regents. 

A  feeling  of  esprit  de  corps,  a  realization  of  their 
academic  solidarity,  pervaded  the  teachers  of  all  de- 
partments. They  chatted  in  groups;  they  made 
jocular  comments  on  each  other's  finery;  they  were 
conscious  of  the  amused  pride  of  their  wives,  who 
waved  them  salutations  as  they  passed  by.  In  all 
that  distinguished  gathering  there  was  scarcely  one 
who  was  indifferent  to  the  holiday  spirit  of  the 
occasion. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Everett  lin- 
16 


WITH   THE   PROCESSION  17 

gered  a  moment  on  their  way  down  the  hill  and 
beckoned  Professor  Everett  from  the  line. 

"It  took  me  an  hour  to  get  him  ready,"  his  wife 
declared.  "Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  vanity  of 
women." 

"When  I  saw  you  at  my  table  the  other  night," 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  remarked,  "I  didn't  know  that  I  was 
entertaining  an  angel  unawares;  or  shall  I  say  a 
peacock  ?" 

The  professor  beamed  upon  her  genially,  for  he 
always  enjoyed  her  banter. 

"You  must  dine  with  us  to-night,"  he  rejoined, 
"and  give  us  an  opportunity  to  entertain  an  angel, 
not  unawares." 

"I'm  not  sure  I  shall  let  her,"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 
"Mr.  Plow,  have  you  come  to  capture  the  deserter? 
I'm  afraid  the  fault  is  ours." 

Plow  took  Everett  by  the  arm. 

"This  is  no  time  for  talking,"  he  said,  "however 
great  the  temptation.  The  sirens  will  have  to  give 
place  to-day  to  a  Ulysses.  Come  on;  the  boys  are 
waiting.  I'm  your  superior  officer,  you  know." 
He  shook  his  baton  threateningly  and  began  to 
draw  his  friend  away.  , 

"Wait  a  moment !"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  cried.  "I  want 
to  ask  you  who  those  gorgeous  fellows  are  over 
there,  those  with  the  lilac  velvet  trimming." 

"Those?"  he  echoed,  with  an  expression  inde- 
scribably humorous.  "Why,  they  are  the  dental 
faculty.  They  make  the  rest  of  us  look  like  thirty 
cents,  and  carry  off  all  the  honors  with  the  women. 
I  have  no  use  for  them." 


1 8  THE  TORCH 

"Nor  I  either,"  she  replied,  with  a  smile  that 
proved  her  words  true.  "But  where  are  your  fine 
feathers?" 

"I'm  grand  marshal  of  this  whole  outfit.  You  are 
to  imagine  me  clothed  in  the  invisible  robes  of  au- 
thority," he  explained. 

The  two  women  waved  them  a  laughing  adieu 
and  went  down  the  hill  together. 

"This  is  the  great  day  of  Mr.  Plow's  life,"  said 
Mrs.  Van  Sant.  "It's  lovely  to  see  two  men  so  de- 
voted to  each  other  as  he  and  the  president  are." 

Mrs.  Everett  felt  that  Plow  might  have  supported 
her  own  husband's  candidacy  for  the  presidency, 
and  was  not  so  sure  of  his  disinterestedness. 

"To  think  of  his  refusing  to  wear  a  cap  and  gown 
on  an  occasion  like  this,"  she  remarked,  "especially 
when  he  is  marshal  of  the  procession !  I  understand, 
too,  that  Mr.  Babington  expressed  a  desire  for  uni- 
formity in  the  matter;  but  one  can  take  liberties 
with  the  wishes  of  an  old  friend." 

Her  companion  did  not  fail  to  detect  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  innuendo. 

"It's  only  an  illustration  of  his  democratic  pro- 
clivities, I  fancy,"  she  rejoined.  "He  feels  that  a 
silk  gown  would  not  look  well  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
champion  of  the  workingmen." 

Mrs.  Everett  concealed  her  hurt  with  a  smiling 
acquiescence.  Her  friend  had  sympathized  with  her 
hopes  for  her  husband,  but  now,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  she  was  enlisted  on  the  side  of  the  successful 
man. 

The  band  was  already  beginning  to  utter  notes  of 


WITH   THE    PROCESSION  19 

preparation,  and  Plow  rushed  up  and  down  the  line, 
shoving  men  into  place. 

"Close  in  there  with  Brown !"  he  shouted  to  Lee. 
"You  don't  object  to  the  classics?" 

The  selection  was  scarcely  a  happy  one,  but  Lee 
smiled  amiably  at  the  Latinist. 

"I'm  delighted,"  he  remarked,  "to  march  arm  in 
arm  with  a  lexicon." 

He  had  known  Marcus  Brown  in  the  graduate 
school  of  an  eastern  university,  whither  he  had  gone 
after  taking  his  first  degree  at  Argos.  Although  the 
two  men  were  not  friends,  they  had  never  quite 
abandoned  the  mutual  banter  of  their  student  days. 
Fortune  had  flung  them  together  again  at  Argos, 
and  Lee  had  risen  to  a  full  professorship,  while 
Brown  remained  still  an  instructor.  The  philologue 
regarded  the  English  professor  with  a  malevolent 
smile,  though  his  shifty,  light  blue  eyes  could  not 
meet  steadily  his  rival's  imperious  gaze.  It  was 
characteristic  of  him  to  smile  continuously  and  never 
to  look  any  one  in  the  face.  His  square  head,  his 
blond  beard,  his  squat  figure,  reminded  Lee  of  a 
kobold  of  the  mountains.  He  wagged  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  groping  in  vain  for  a  witty  retort.  Then 
he  prepared  a  more  deliberate  thrust. 

"The  president  made  a  speech  to  the  students  last 
night,?  he  said,  "and  took  them  by  storm." 

"We'll  take  him  by  storm  to-day,"  Lee  rejoined, 
looking  up  at  the  hurrying  clouds.  "One  good  turn 
deserves  another." 

"I  knew  Babington  years  ago,"  Brown  went  on, 
"long  before  I  knew  you.  He  was  one  of  my  pro~ 


20  THE   TORCH 

fessors  when  I  was  an  undergraduate.  He  believes 
in  sound  scholarship.  He'll  trim  off  some  of  the  old 
growth  of  the  faculty,  and  some  of  the  young  shoots, 
too." 

Lee  saw  the  drift  of  his  remarks,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  with  enjoyment.  He  knew  that  Brown  re- 
garded English  literature  as  mere  flubdub  compared 
with  classical  philology,  and  sneered  at  the  poems 
that  sometimes  appeared  in  the  magazines  over 
the  name  of  Nicholas  Lee.  Evidently  the  instructor 
believed  that  the  day  of  reckoning  had  come,  and 
that  he  would  be  advanced  to  honor  while  the  official 
scissors  snipped  his  rival  in  the  bud. 

"Brown,"  he  said  solemnly,  "this  is  the  opportu- 
nity of  your  life.  I  advise  you  to  sit  up  nights  work- 
ing overtime  on  that  grammatical  treatise  of  yours, 
and  then  dedicate  it  to  the  Gamaliel  at  whose  feet 
you  sat  in  your  undergraduate  days." 

The  band  at  the  head  of  the  column  struck  up  a 
march  and  prevented  reply.  The  long  line  began  to 
move  slowly  down  the  hill.  As  they  turned  the  cor- 
ner of  College  Hall  they  saw  the  theater  below  them 
densely  packed  with  people.  The  canopy  over  the 
platform,  gay  with  looped  flags,  billowed  in  the 
wind.  Tall  standards,  placed  at  intervals  about  the 
inclosure,  streamed  with  bunting  of  green  and  gold, 
the  university  colors.  Even  the  dingy  buildings 
that  looked  down  on  the  scene  caught  a  reflected 
glory.  Here  some  two  thousand  young  men  and 
women  of  the  state  sought  the  advantages  of  a 
higher  education.  Here  many  a  youth  dreamed  of 
future  usefulness  to  his  country,  or  of  renown  in 


WITH   THE  -  PROCESSION  21 

the  fields  of  learning,  and  the  scene  of  such  dreams 
was  not  without  dignity  to  the  eyes  of  the  spiritually 
minded. 

At  last  the  procession  had  wound  down  the  long 
graveled  path,  through  the  gate,  and  ascended  the 
platform  that  inclosed  the  speaker's  rostrum.  The 
music  rose  into  a  final  brazen  and  triumphant  crash, 
and  then  a  sudden  silence  fell  on  the  thousands  of 
upturned  faces.  A  confused  murmur  of  comment 
gradually  became  audible,  like  the  droning  of  a  hive 
of  sleepy  bees.  The  buzzing  sound  changed  into  a 
patter  of  hand-clapping  as  the  chief  regent  came 
forward  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

Judge  Gates  was  one  of  the  pioneers.  His  face, 
which  looked  like  russet  leather,  bore  a  curious  rec- 
ord of  humor  and  avarice.  He  waited  for  silence, 
the  suggestion  of  a  satirical  smile  on  his  lips.  It 
was  rumored  that  he  had  not  approved  the  choice  of 
Babington,  and  many  wondered  whether  he  would 
show  in  his  speech  the  impish  spirit  for  which  he  was 
famed. 

The  judge's  speech  was  short,  as  befitted  his  pres- 
ent role.  He  congratulated  the  university  upon  its 
new  president,  but  before  he  closed  he  reminded 
Doctor  Babington  that  a  professor's  position  was 
like  an  easy  armchair,  whereas  the  president  was 
seated  in  a  rocker,  exposed  to  every  wind  of  criti- 
cism, and  in  danger  of  being  precipitated  to  the 
floor.  He  hoped,  he  believed,  that  no  such  disaster 
would  befall  the  present  occupant.  It  was  scarcely 
a  felicitous  jest,  and  the  judge  sat  down,  leaving  the 
audience  to  make  the  best  of  it. 


22  THE   TORCH 

The  governor  of  the  state  spoke  next ;  a  large,  hir- 
sute man  who  had  hammered  hfs  way  to  the  front 
without  the  aid  of  an  education  and  despised  univer- 
sities. The  present  audience  was  only  a  small  part 
of  the  public  he  wished  to  conciliate.  He  really  rep- 
resented the  rustic  population  of  the  state,  who  re- 
garded the  university  with  suspicion  and  grudged 
the  taxes  that  must  go  to  its  support.  The  coldness 
of  his  reception  showed  him  that  he  was  in  the  camp 
of  his  enemies.  He  spoke  in  a  vague,  amorphous 
manner  of  the  necessity  of  education,  and  having 
done  his  duty  as  a  politician  he  hastened  to  introduce 
the  new  president. 

As  Babington  came  forward  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  audience  was  boundless.  The  students  cheered ; 
the  women  clapped  their  hands  and  waved  their 
handkerchiefs.  The  president's  predecessor  stood 
beside  him  to  administer  the  oath  of  office.  They 
formed  a  strong  contrast,  the  one  so  bent  and  fee- 
ble, the  other  so  young  and  strong,  fit  emblems  of 
the  old  and  new  order  of  things.  The  president 
wore  his  academic  gown  as  if  it  were  an  imperial 
robe,  and  held  his  tasseled  cap  in  his  hand  while  he 
bowed  his  acknowledgments  to  the  applause.  When 
the  short  ceremony  of  inauguration  was  over  he  re- 
placed his  cap  on  his  head  and  faced  the  audience 
he  meant  to  win. 

This  was  the  man  whose  fame  had  been  heralded 
from  afar,  gathering  volume  as  it  rolled,  and  the 
people  were  prepared  for  a  rare  treat  of  oratory. 
His  appearance  justified  their  expectation;  he  was 
tall,  square-shouldered,  handsome.  But  when  he 


WITH    THE    PROCESSION  23 

began  to  speak  it  became  apparent  that  his  voice  was 
even  more  attractive  than  his  personality.  Before 
he  had  spoken  many  minutes  it  was  evident  to  the 
more  discerning  that  he  had  the  happy  faculty  of 
clothing  platitudes  in  a  sumptuous  raiment  of  rhet- 
oric. A  little  lawyer  in  the  audience  whose  voice 
was  like  a  cracked  flageolet  whispered  to  his  wife 
that  such  a  larynx  and  such  a  pair  of  shoulders 
would  be  worth  ten  thousand  a  year  to  any  man, 
and  made  the  addition  of  brains  superfluous.  But 
the  majority  of  those  present  had  less  reason  to  be 
perspicacious.  Had  the  president  confined  his  re- 
marks to  the  state  of  the  weather,  they  would  have 
felt  that  some  deep  significance  must  underlie  his 
statements. 

Those  who  expected  some  discussion  of  university 
problems  were  disappointed.  Whether  the  president 
had  no  convictions  on  modern  educational  ques- 
tions, or  whether  he  had  determined  to  give  offense 
to  no  one,  was  a  matter  of  conjecture.  The  cause 
remained  obscure,  but  the  fact  gradually  dawned 
upon  the  thoughtful  that  not  even  the  governor  had 
been  more  politic  and  non-committal.  But  the 
thoughtful  were  in  a  minority.  The  great  majority 
were  held  captive,  as  by  music,  and  strained  their 
ears  to  catch  every  syllable  spoken  by  this  prophet 
who  had  come  to  win  honor  in  a  country  not  his 
own. 

The  president  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  the  univer- 
sity site  and  of  the  opportunity  of  growth  within  its 
grasp.  He  described  the  surrounding  country  as  a 
land  of  corn  and  plenty.  He  seemed  already  to 


24  THE  TORCH 

make  it  his  own,  and  the  hospitable  hearts  of  his 
hearers  grew  warm  in  response.  As  he  limned  the 
university  of  the  future  before  their  eyes  they  were 
stirred  by  his  earnestness  and  sincerity.  The  pic- 
ture appealed  to  their  western  love  of  bigness. 
They  tingled  with  patriotism  and  felt  that  the  uni- 
versity at  Argos  was  in  the  forefront  of  the  educa- 
tional movement. 

Plow  fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  old  friend,  like  one 
entranced,  forgetful  of  everything  except  the  tri- 
umph he  made  his  own.  It  was  a  great  day  for  him 
also,  and  a  vindication  of  his  faith. 

The  last  and  longest  part  of  the  president's  ora- 
tion was  devoted  to  ethical  questions.  There  was  a 
touch  of  the  evangelical  exhorter  in  the  passion  with 
which  he  insisted  on  high  ideals,  no  less  for  the 
students  and  the  faculty  than  for  himself.  The  ten- 
sion became  almost  painful,  and  the  scene  was  one 
long  to  be  remembered :  the  silent  multitude,  the  flut- 
tering, many-colored  flags,  the  central  figure  that 
seemed  to  draw  power  and  inspiration  from  the  mul- 
titude and  to  give  it  back  tenfold,  the  library  tower 
on  the  hill,  wreathed  in  rolling  mists  and  sending 
down  the  wind  its  sweet  reminders  of  the  flight  of 
time. 

But  all  great  occasions  must  have  an  end,  and  this 
one  came  to  a  close  untimely.  The  speaker  had 
scarcely  sunk  into  his  seat  and  the  spell  of  his  voice 
was  still  on  them  when  the  rain  came,  driving  in 
a  chilly  blur  across  the  autumn  sky.  Then  there  was 
a  rush  for  the  exits.  People  crouched  under  um- 
brellas and  bent  to  the  wind  as  they  hurried  home- 


WITH   THE    PROCESSION  25 

ward.  Dignified  professors  took  off  their  gowns, 
folded  the  hoods  within,  and  fairly  ran.  In  half  an 
hour  the  great  inclosure  was  deserted.  The  scene 
of  so  much  enthusiasm  was  silent,  save  for  the  mo- 
notonous drip  of  the  rain  and  the  dreary  flapping 
of  the  bunting  that  stained  the  tall  standards  with 
streaks  of  yellow  and  green. 

That  afternoon  President  Babington  stood  on  the 
wide  floor  of  the  gymnasium  and  met  the  univer- 
sity individually.  The  crowd  drifted  by,  now  singly, 
now  in  groups.  Staid  professors  and  their  wives, 
young  instructors  to  whom  he  was  a  czar,  enthusi- 
astic students,  all  bade  him  welcome.  The  continu- 
ance of  the  storm  took  all  brilliancy  from  the  recep- 
tion, but  could  not  dampen  the  ardor,  both  real  and 
feigned,  of  the  university  constituents. 

A  long  line  of  carriages  stood  before  the  door, 
but  these  vehicles  were  the  property  of  rich  towns- 
people who  had  come  to  meet  the  president.  The 
professors,  with  few  exceptions,  came  afoot,  and 
left  their  streaming  umbrellas  and  muddy  rubbers 
in  the  vestibule.  The  rain  beat  against  the  windows 
with  a  dismal  persistence.  During  the  pauses  of  the 
music  in  the  gallery  the  monotonous  patter  became 
audible,  and  chilling  drafts  stirred  the  long  stream- 
ers of  bunting  looped  from  the  iron  girders  of  the 
roof. 

"It's  enough  to  make  a  horse  laugh,"  Lee  re- 
marked to  Trumbull,  as  they  stood  aside. 

"What's  enough?"  his  friend  demanded,  with  a 
suggestion  of  challenge  in  his  tone. 

"Fyffe,  for  example.    He  stands  there  as  if  fasci- 


26  THE   TORCH 

nated.  He  told  me  this  morning  that  he  had  found 
a  great  man  at  last,  one  whom  he  could  imitate. 
And  look  at  Brown,  ducking  his  head  as  if  his  neck 
were  a  hinge.  He's  telling  his  old  teacher  about 
that  grammatical  treatise." 

"It's  a  good  one,  anyhow,"  Trumbull  declared. 
"That  man's  a  scholar." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  Lee  assented.  "He's  one  of 
the  brightest  jewels  in  our  academic  crown." 

The  president  was  chatting  with  the  Everetts 
and  Mrs.  Van  Sant. 

"Are  you  one  of  the  students,  Miss  Van  Sant?" 
he  asked  in  his  kindly  manner.  She  broke  into  a 
little  ripple  of  laughter. 

"Only  by  proxy.  I  sometimes  pick  up  crumbs  of 
wisdom  from  my  son,  who  is  a  member  of  the 
freshman  class." 

"Your  son!"  He  focused  his  round  gray  eyes 
upon  her  with  astonishment  that  bordered  on  stu- 
pefaction. "I  didn't  quite  hear,"  he  managed  to  say 
at  last.  "This  is  certainly  a  wonderful  climate.  I 
shall  expect  to  be  taken  for  a  freshman  myself  be- 
fore the  year  is  past." 

There  would  be  opportunity  in  the  future,  she 
reflected,  for  him  to  discover  his  mistake.  At  pres- 
ent she  enjoyed  his  surprise  too  much  to  undeceive 
him. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  climate,"  she  assented,  "in  spite 
of  present  appearances."  The  Everetts  had  gone  on, 
and  they  were  alone  for  a  moment.  "Of  course  you 
will  remember  every  one  you  meet  to-day,"  she  said, 
not  unconscious  of  the  inanity  of  the  remark  with 


WITH   THE    PROCESSION  27 

which  she  attempted  to  punctuate  the  silence  that 
had  suddenly  fallen  between  them.  "I  understand 
that  public  men  have  remarkable  memories." 

"There's  one  I  sha'n't  forget,"  he  declared  with 
a  touch  of  gallantry. 

She  greeted  the  sally  with  the  impersonal  smile 
of  a  woman  experienced  in  compliments,  and  passed 
on  to  join  the  Everetts. 

That  evening,  as  she  sat  with  her  friends  by  their 
fireside,  she  bantered  the  professor  as  was  her  wont. 

"You  know  very  well,"  she  cried,  "that  you 
faculty  men  daren't  say  a  word,  but  I'm  an  outsider 
and  can  say  what  I  please.  I  think  Mr.  Babington 
is  as  pompous  as  a  peacock  and  as  platitudinous  as 
a  parson." 

"What  a  shabby  return  for  that  pretty  compli- 
ment of  his,  Susanne!"  Mrs.  Everett  interposed. 
"I  saw  he  was  quite  taken  with  you;  that's  why 
I  drew  Tom  away." 

"Well,  after  all,"  the  professor  said  genially,  "a 
touch  of  pomposity  isn't  fatal ;  in  fact,  it  appeals  to 
the  masses.  And  in  regard  to  platitudes,  when  you 
reach  my  age  you  will  discover  that  there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun.  Every  public  occasion  like  this 
calls  for  certain  obvious  remarks,  and  all  we  have 
a  right  to  demand  is  that  the  speaker  shall  make 
them  in  an  adequate  and  convincing  manner.  What 
we  want  is  a  man  of  popular  qualities  who  will  win 
the  confidence  of  the  people  and  bring  them  to  the 
university.  I  thought  Babington  seemed  a  good, 
human  sort  of  fellow,  and  I've  no  doubt  that  after 
he  has  made  a  few  natural  mistakes  he  will  shake 


28  THE   TORCH 

down  into  his  position  and  become  a  first-rate  presi- 
dent." 

Mrs.  Everett  regarded  her  husband  with  affec- 
tionate exasperation.  She  was  thinking  that  this 
very  charity  had  cost  him  the  presidency.  Mrs.  Van 
Sant's  laughing  criticism  did  not  conceal  from  her 
the  fact  that  she  had  found  Babington  interesting 
and  attractive.  Here  was  one  subject,  at  least,  upon 
which  there  could  be  no  real  frankness  between 
them'. 

At  other  firesides  also  that  night  the  president 
was  almost  the  sole  topic  of  conversation,  but  fac- 
ulty criticism  was  generally  guarded  and  more  than 
offset  by  saving  clauses  of  commendation,  for  the 
power  of  the  man  loomed  vaguely  threatening. 

Doctor  Brown  sat  in  his  room  alone  and  worked 
feverishly  on  the  subjunctive  mood.  He  intended 
to  do  the  very  thing  that  Lee  had  so  sarcastically  ad- 
vised. When  he  laid  aside  his  pen  at  midnight  he  was 
fiercely  exalted.  He  took  down  his  well-worn  Bible 
and  turned  to  a  sanguinary  passage  from  which 
his  soul  derived  deep  comfort.  He  was  thrilled  by 
the  denunciations  of  the  prophet  against  the  enemies 
of  Israel,  as  if  they  were  a  serried  phalanx  of  his 
rivals. 

High  up  in  a  building  in  the  capital  sat  the  local 
representative  of  the  Associated  Press.  To-night 
he  was  proud  of  the  story  it  was  his  privilege  to 
communicate.  He  sent  a  long  and  circumstantial 
account  of  the  inauguration  over  the  wires,  but  the 
crop  of  casualties  and  crimes  was  unusually  large, 


WITH   THE    PROCESSION  29 

and  only  the  following  lines  on  the  event  appeared 
the  next  day  in  the  eastern  papers. 

"Argos,  September  23. — To-day  Professor  Henry 
Babington  was  formally  inaugurated  president  of 
the  State  University.  The  exercises  were  held  in  the 
open  air,  and  the  attendance  was  the  largest  in  the 
history  of  the  institution.  The  governor  introduced 
the  new  president,  who  spoke  eloquently  upon  uni- 
versity ideals.  Rain  interrupted  the  proceedings." 

But  in  Argos  the  event  was  large  in  its  various 
aspects.  The  students  were  hilarious;  the  social  set 
that  circled  about  the  university  was  planning  a 
series  of  entertainments;  but  to  the  majority  of  the 
faculty  the  day  closed  in  weariness  and  feverish  con- 
jecture. There  were  few  who  were  not  conscious 
of  the  steady  encroachments  of  those  idle  half-hours 
that  professors  love.  Many  were  living  on  the  rep- 
utations they  would  one  day  acquire  when  the  books 
on  which  they  were  working  so  fitfully  should  see 
the  light  of  day.  There  was  a  guilty  consciousness 
of  lectures  reread  year  after  year  without  revision, 
of  the  uncut  leaves  of  technical  journals  on  the 
library  shelves.  Excuses  might  seem  adequate  or 
not,  according  to  the  point  of  view :  the  exhausting 
strain  of  teaching  large  classes,  the  pressure  of  com- 
mittee work  and  of  social  duties,  the  very  weariness 
of  bookish  men  at  the  thought  of  adding  to  the 
world's  uncounted  books.  But  it  was  rumored  that 
the  new  president  would  exact  a  high  standard  of 


30  THE   TORCH 

achievement,  and  many  a  man  turned  restlessly  on 
his  pillow  as  he  heard  the  steady  autumn  rain  keep- 
ing pace  with  his  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   PUBLIC   PULSE 

Shortly  before  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  the 
president  entered  the  campus  and  walked  toward 
his  office.  The  wind  had  veered  and  was  clearing 
the  sky  of  clouds.  Miniature  ravines  in  the  gravel 
walk  showed  the  effect  of  the  recent  downpour,  and 
the  matting  of  dead  leaves  under  the  trees  was  no- 
ticeably thicker.  The  tart  and  bracing  quality  of 
the  air  sent  the  blood  tingling  to  his  finger-tips  and 
stirred  his  mind  with  high  resolves  for  the  coming 
winter. 

As  Babington  neared  the  center  of  the  grounds 
the  library  chimes  began  to  ring,  the  paths  became 
thronged  with  students,  the  sun  burst  forth  at  last, 
and  a  belt  of  yellow  light  swept  rapidly  across  the 
campus,  touching  the  moving  picture  with  sudden 
life  and  color. 

Every  one  noticed  the  erect  form  of  the  new  presi- 
dent. His  expression  was  genial  and  serene,  and  his 
white  felt  hat  seemed  more  cheerful  and  informal 
than  the  tall  silk  in  which  he  had  made  his  first 
appearance  in  Argos. 

The  greetings  he  received  were  as  various  as  the 
natures  that  offered  them.  A  woman  student  bowed 


32  THE   TORCH 

with  shy  admiration.  Some  of  the  men  saluted  in 
the  military  fashion  they  had  learned ;  a  few  looked 
straight  ahead  without  a  sign  of  recognition,  being 
either  too  indifferent  or  too  proud  to  speak  to  one 
who  did  not  know  them  personally.  One  group  of 
girls  passed  by  tittering.  The  president  looked  be- 
nignly on  all,  as  if  he  welcomed  an  opportunity 
of  speaking.  The  variety  of  greetings  interested 
and  amused  him. 

When  he  reached  the  door  of  his  office  he  found 
a  long  line  of  students  waiting  for  an  interview.  In 
his  inaugural  address  he  had  invited  them  to  come 
to  him  with  their  troubles  and  perplexities,  and  they 
had  taken  him  at  his  word.  The  heartiness  of  the 
response  was  somewhat  of  a  surprise,  but  he  in- 
cluded them  all  in  a  smile  of  welcome  as  he  passed 
in. 

He  closed  the  door  and  stood  at  one  of  the  win- 
dows for  a  few  moments,  looking  at  the  lines  of  hur- 
rying students  and  professors.  He  heard  in  the 
building  the  ringing  of  electric  bells  that  marked 
the  beginning  of  recitations.  The  hallway  outside 
echoed  with  the  shuffling  of  feet  and  the  murmur  of 
voices.  A  typewriter  in  the  next  room  clicked 
madly  and  intensified  the  impression  of  strenuous 
activity.  His  pulses  quickened  with  excitement. 
The  beginning  of  his  new  career,  with  all  its  dan- 
gers and  opportunities,  was  at  hand.  A  sudden  de- 
pression and  panic  took  possession  of  him,  the  panic 
of  the  pause  before  the  fight. 

The  first  student  in  the  line  was  a  woman.    The 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  33 

president  was  a  close  observer.  He  noticed  the  ill- 
hanging  skirt,  the  unbecoming  spectacles,  and  even 
the  rough  hand  that  rested  nervously  on  the  edge 
of  the  desk.  This  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  he 
liked,  but  he  smiled  on  her  genially. 

"Good  morning.  And  what  can  I  do  for  you  this 
morning?" 

"I've  been  waiting,"  she  began  breathlessly; 
"good  morning,  Professor;  that  is,  Mr.  President. 
The  girls  wanted  me  to  come  and  tell  you  that  the 
Y.  W.  C.  A.  want  to  hold  their  meetings  during  the 
hour  when  Latin  prose  is  given.  Friday  afternoons 
is  the  most  convenient  time  for  us." 

Babington  wrote  a  request  to  Doctor  Brown  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

"I  hope  that  will  make  it  all  right,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. 

She  seized  the  paper  and  began  her  incoherent 
thanks. 

"Nobody  cares  for  the  co-eds,"  she  stammered. 
Babington  turned  to  the  next  comer  with  an  im- 
personal smile.  The  young  woman,  thus  dis- 
missed, stumbled  backward,  as  if  retiring  from  the 
presence  of  royalty,  until  she  found  herself,  still 
dazed,  in  the  hall. 

The  young  man  that  came  next  had  heard  that  the 
president  worked  his  way  through  college,  and  he 
felt  sure  of  his  ground. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Babington,"  he  said  sono- 
rously. 

The  president  became  companionable. 


34  THE   TORCH 

"You  must  tell  me  your  name,"  he  said,  "and  if 
I  forget  it  tell  me  over  again,  the  next  time  we 
meet." 

"Jones,"  the  other  answered.  "You  won't  forget 
that  name,  though  you  may  hitch  it  to  the  wrong 
fellow.  There's  a  lot  of  Joneses  here,  but  I'm  the 
Jones  that  wants  the  library  job.  The  fellow  who's 
got  the  job  now  gets  twenty  dollars  a  month.  He's 
going  to  give  it  up  next  week ;  his  father  wants  him 
at  home.  I  can  do  the  work  all  right,  I  guess.  This 
is  my  junior  year.  I've  done  a  lot  of  things  to  sup- 
port myself  off  and  on:  Last  year  Billy  Barnes  and 
I  ran  an  express  wagon,  but  as  soon  as  the  fellows 
found  that  we  had  pinched  a  good  thing  they  all 
started  in  and  ruined  the  business  for  us.  There's 
no  money  in  it  now.  I'd  like  the  library  job  first- 
rate.  If  I  don't  get  something  to  do  mighty  quick 
I'll  have  to  go  home.  I  could  get  a  scholarship  at 
Washington  University  all  right,  but  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  that  bum  place  after  we've  put  it  all  over 
them  in  football.'"  He  grinned  broadly. 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  the  breezy  quality  of 
the  man.  The  president  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Jones,"  he  said,  "I'll  make  a  note 
of  it  on  this  paper  here,  and  if  the  position  is  open 
you  can  rely  on  my  help.  We  can't  afford  to  lose 
you  to  Washington." 

"Thanks,"  the  student  replied.  "I'll  drop  in  on 
you  again  next  week  and  see  how  the  thing  turns 
out." 

The  president's  spirits  were  rising.    He  began  to 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  35 

hope  that  all  the  students  were  not  forlorn,  but  the 
next  man  dashed  his  hope.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  fel- 
low that  leaned  far  over  the  desk  and  began  to  whis- 
per a  long  tale  about  his  efforts  to  obtain  a  loan  of 
one  hundred  dollars  from  the  committee  in  charge 
of  the  fund  for  deserving  students.  It  appeared 
that  all  the  money  was  exhausted.  The  student 
would  be  graduated  at  Christmas,  and  the  lack  of 
money  was  all  that  stood  between  him  and  his  di- 
ploma. 

Babington  was  a  man  of  impulse.  He  did  not 
stop  to  analyze  the  feeling  that  moved  him  to  take 
out  his  check-book  and  write  an  order  for  the  money 
then  and  there.  Perhaps  it  was  done  in  a  frantic 
desire  to  remove  from  his  ear  that  ghostly  whisper 
and  melancholy  visage;  perhaps  he  was  moved  by 
compassion ;  perhaps  he  was  making  a  bid  for  popu- 
larity. 

"Take  your  own  time  about  the  payment,"  he  said 
kindly.  "Now  don't  worry  about  it.  Pay  it  back 
some  time  when  you  get  ready.  No,  I  don't  want 
your  note." 

The  young  man's  eyes  grew  moist,  and  Babing- 
ton's  distress  was  poignant  until  he  finally  took  him- 
self off  to  trumpet  the  deed  through  the  campus. 

The  morning  wore  away,  and  still  it  seemed  that 
the  line  would  never  end.  Babington  began  to  see 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  resolved  to  protect 
himself  in  future  by  restricting  the  hours  of  inter- 
view. Some  of  the  petitions  were  absurdly  trivial 
and  tried  his  nerves.  Some  were  in  regard  to  the 
athletic  policy,  demanding  quick,  sane  judgment. 


36  THE   TORCH 

All  sorts  of  personalities  faced  him  and  drained  his 
vitality.  At  last  a  slim,  rosy-cheeked  youth  stood 
before  him,  holding  his  cane  and  hat  in  his  hand. 

"My  name  is  Van  Sant,"  he  said,  "Robert  Van 
Sant.  I  am  president  of  the  freshman  class." 

Robert  had  been  elected  to  his  office  only  the  day 
before  the  inauguration.  He  did  not  know  that 
presidents  of  freshman  classes  were  often  the  jests 
of  fortune,  chosen  almost  by  accident  and  destined 
to  drop  into  obscurity  as  soon  as  abler  men  began 
to  emerge  from  the  mass. 

The  president's  weary  glance  brightened.  He 
looked  at  the  boy  curiously  to  see  if  he  could  detect 
any  resemblance  to  the  woman  whose  peculiar  charm 
had  arrested  his  attention  the  day  before,  but  he 
could  see  none. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  a  colleague,"  he  remarked. 
"Presidents  ought  to  have  a  fellow  feeling  for  each 
other.  I  believe  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your 
mother  yesterday." 

"My  stepmother,  sir,"  the  youth  corrected. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  the  president  murmured.  "And  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"The  sophs  have  been  trying  to  get  this  cane 
away,"  said  Van  Sant,  holding  it  up  proudly,  "but 
we  were  too  many  for  them.  What  I  want  to  know 
is  this:  Have  we,  or  have  we  not,  the  ordinary 
privilege  of  American  citizens  to  walk  about  quietly, 
minding  our  own  business,  without  being  subject 
to  the  attacks  of  a  lot  of  roughs?  Have  we  no 
means  of  redress,  sir?  We  propose  to  resist  to  the 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  37 

best  of  our  ability,  and  we  hope  you  will  take  cog- 
nizance of  the  fact  that  we  are  not  the  aggressors." 

The  boy's  manner  was  that  of  a  prig,  but  his 
words  were  manly.  Like  his  father,  he  could  fight, 
though  it  must  be  by  rule  and  method. 

"You're  all  right,"  Babington  rejoined.  "If  any 
fellow  tries  to  take  away  your  cane,  hit  him  over 
the  head  with  it." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Robert  replied,  stiffening.  "We 
thank  you." 

The  president  divined  that  his  pleasantry  had 
been  mistaken  for  a  command. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  mean  you 
to  take  me  literally.  You'd  better  have  an  organized 
rush.  Choose  your  champions  on  both  sides  and 
settle  the  question  once  for  all.  That's  the  way  we 
used  to  do  when  I  was  in  college.  I  can't  allow 
•fighting  in  the  halls,  or  any  interruption  of  the  regu- 
lar work.  No  violence,  remember;  just  a  good-na- 
tured trial  of  strength." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Van  Sant  repeated,  saluting. 
"I  understand." 

It  was  nearing  twelve  o'clock  when  the  president 
looked  up  to  see  Professor  Everett  standing  before 
him,  benignant,  as  was  his  wont,  but  weary  with 
waiting.  A  light  of  nervous  irritation  was  now  in 
possession  of  Babington's  eyes.  He  was  hungry 
and  tired,  and  he  had  scarcely  time  to  eat  his  lunch 
before  he  must  take  the  car  for  the  capital,  where 
he  had  an  engagement  to  speak  that  afternoon. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  laying  his  watch  on  the  desk 


38  THE   TORCH 

before  him,  "I've  got  just  about  half  an  hour  in 
which  to  eat  my  lunch  before  I  must  catch  a  train. 
Please  state  your  business  quickly." 

The  older  man  regarded  him  with  surprise.  He 
had  been  accustomed  to  a  comfortable  chat  with  the 
former  president,  while  the  students  waited  outside. 
Now  he  was  not  even  asked  to  take  a  chair. 

"I'm  afraid  this  business  can't  be  stated  quickly," 
he  said.  "We've  been  working  on  it  some  ten 
years.  It  concerns  the  teaching  of  Greek  and  Latin 
in  the  schools  of  the  state." 

Babington  rose  to  his  feet,  snapped  his  watch  shut, 
and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"You  might  submit  your  suggestions  in  writing," 
he  remarked,  "and  I  will  look  them  over.  I'm  sorry 
I  can't  give  you  more  of  my  time  just  now,  but  I'm 
sure  you  understand  the  pressing  nature  of  my  en- 
gagement. Good  morning." 

When  Everett  reached  the  sidewalk  he  met  his 
colleague,  George  Robison  Stuart,  professor  of  Eu- 
ropean History.  They  fell  into  step  and  walked 
homeward  together. 

Stuart  was  a  Scotchman,  proud  of  his  connection 
with  the  British  Empire,  proud  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  never  become  an  American  citizen,  proud  of  his 
name,  his  red  beard,  his  very  ugliness.  Babington's 
inaugural  address  had  irritated  him  profoundly.  He 
resented  the  president's  extravagant  praise  of  Amer- 
ican methods  in  education,  for  he  felt  that  no  real 
university  existed  as  yet  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 

"Did  you  see  his  lordship  ?"  he  asked.  "What  did 
he  say  about  that  matter?" 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  39 

Everett's  face  was  clouded ;  he  resembled  an  owl 
stirred  up  in  daylight. 

"Perhaps  I  chose  a  bad  time,"  he  answered,  "but 
even  so  it  struck  me  that  my  dismissal  was  a  little 
abrupt.  He  drew  out  his  watch  and  ran  to  catch 
the  train.  It  was  a  mistake  to  invite  the  students 
to  come  to  see  him.  All  that  work  is  done  by  the 
proper  committees.  He  is  keeping  the  important 
business  of  the  university  waiting." 

"While  he  feels  the  popular  pulse,"  Stuart  supple- 
mented, smiling  darkly.  "My  dear  fellow,  you've 
had  a  taste  of  what  you  may  expect  in  future.  It's 
his  deliberate  policy  to  stand  in  with  the  regents 
and  students  and  let  the  faculty  go  hang.  Kings 
have  found  it  a  dangerous  business  to  appeal  to  the 
people  over  the  heads  of  the  senate,  and  history 
repeats  itself.  But  I'll  not  join  the  bands  of  the 
prophets  yet." 

Notwithstanding  Stuart's  unfavorable  opinion  of 
the  new  president,  he  and  his  wife  did  not  hesitate 
to  invite  him  to  dinner  as  soon  as  possible  and  to 
treat  him  with  the  courtesy  due  his  office.  Babing- 
ton  was  in  great  demand,  and  it  seemed  to  some  that 
his  duties  were  chiefly  oratorical  and  convivial.  Din- 
ners and  receptions  followed  one  another  in  rapid 
succession ;  the  rich  townspeople  vied  with  the  well- 
to-do  professors  in  showing  him  honor.  He  was 
claimed  also  by  the  state  at  large.  One  night  he 
addressed  a  representative  body  of  business  men, 
another  night  he  spoke  to  the  Sons  of  the  Prairies, 
or  to  the  Association  of  the  Alumni,  or  to  a  gather- 
ing of  school  teachers,  and  wherever  the  magic 


40  THE   TORCH 

quality  of  his  voice  was  heard  he  left  ardent  ad- 
mirers. 

One  afternoon,  about  half-past  five  o'clock,  Doctor 
Brown  spied  a  light  behind  the  drawn  curtains  of 
the  president's  office.  A  month  had  passed  since 
the  inauguration  and  the  instructor  had  not  yet  pre- 
sumed to  approach  his  old  teacher.  During  office 
hours  the  crowd  about  the  door  discouraged  him, 
and  he  knew  that  the  president  was  usually  away 
from  home  in  the  evening.  He  heard  of  the  dinners 
and  receptions,  he  read  Babington's  speeches  in  the 
papers,  and  realized  how  wide  the  gap  had  grown 
between  him  and  his  old  professor. 

His  few  minutes'  conversation  with  the  president 
at  the  first  reception  had  not  been  satisfactory.  Bab- 
ington  was  quite  impersonal,  but  the  instructor  com- 
forted himself  afterward  by  the  reflection  that  the 
conditions  were  not  favorable.  For  a  month  he  had 
hoped  for  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  president 
alone,  that  he  might  tell  him  of  his  researches  and 
pave  the  way  to  fuller  recognition  and  promotion. 
Perhaps  he  might  now  have  half  an  hour  of  friendly 
chat,  undisturbed  by  other  clamorers  for  attention. 
He  determined  to  run  the  risk,  and  mounted  the 
steps  with  palpitating  heart. 

For  some  moments  he  stood  before  the  door,  a 
prey  to  nervous  indecision.  Much  study  had  weak- 
ened his  vitality  and  courage.  The  sound  of  voices 
within  almost  deterred  him,  but  he  remembered 
that  fortune  favors  the  brave  and  finally  summoned 
up  sufficient  resolution  to  knock.  The  murmur  of 
voices  ceased.  Then  the  door  was  half  opened  and 


41 

the  head  of  Watkins,  the  president's  new  private 
secretary,  appeared,  surrounded  by  a  fragrant  halo 
of  tobacco  smoke. 

Brown  had  heard  of  the  president's  new  door- 
keeper, but  had  never  met  him  face  to  face.  He  was 
a  tall,  slender  fellow,  spectacled,  with  amiable  brown 
eyes  and  a  never  failing  smile.  His  salary  was 
twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year,  two  hundred  more 
than  Brown  received,  and  the  cynical  said  that  he 
earned  it.  The  townswomen  were  beginning  to  in- 
vite Watkins  to  dinner,  that  he  might  meet  their 
daughters  and  bring  some  crumbs  of  gossip  from 
the  table  of  the  great  man.  But  Watkins  bore  his 
honors  modestly  and  was  smilingly  non-committal. 

"Who  is  it,  please?"  he  queried,  peering  out  into 
the  dark  hall. 

"Doctor  Brown,"  was  the  answer.  "Is  the  presi- 
dent in?" 

"Will  you  state  your  business,  please?  The  presi- 
dent is  very  much  engaged." 

This  was  the  secretary's  usual  question,  and  many 
of  the  professors  had  felt  insulted  by  it.  Stuart  had 
refused  to  reply,  and  had  pushed  Watkins  aside  as 
if  he  were  an  impertinent  office  boy.  But  Brown 
was  daunted  and  began  to  wish  he  had  not  come. 

"Nothing  very  important,"  he  stammered.  Wat- 
kins  hesitated.  "Wait  a  moment,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I'll  see."  And  he  closed  the  door. 

There  was  nothing  really  offensive  in  the  secre- 
tary's manner.  He  was  neither  brusque  nor  pre- 
sumptuous, but  smiled  and  nodded  and  spoke  softly, 
as  one  who  would  gladly  admit  the  visitor  if  he 


42  THE   TORCH 

could.  He  seemed  like  the  guardian  of  a  sick- 
chamber  who  appreciates  the  well-meant  attentions 
of  friends  but  must  protect  the  patient  at  all  hazards. 
In  a  short  time  he  reappeared. 

"The  president  is  very  much  engaged  and  begs  to 
be  excused,"  he  announced,  in  a  manner  both  mys- 
terious and  sympathetic.  "You  might  call  during 
his  office  hours  to-morrow." 

"I  beg  his  pardon,"  Brown  said  foolishly.  "It 
was  really  of  no  importance.  I'm  sorry  to  have  dis- 
turbed him." 

He  shambled  off  with  a  sickening  depression  of 
spirits  against  which  hope  could  make  no  headway. 
As  he  looked  back  he  saw  the  secretary  emerge  from 
the  building  and  walk  homeward  with  a  step  that 
seemed  to  his  jaundiced  eyes  peculiarly  jaunty,  and 
he  singled  him  out  for  enmity.  The  position  of 
Babington  so  far  hypnotized  him  that  his  resentment 
was  deflected  to  the  poor  mouthpiece  who  did  the 
great  man's  bidding. 

Meanwhile,  Babington  was  leaning  back  in  his 
heavy  oak  chair,  puffing  slowly  at  his  cigar  with  a 
certain  zest  and  manner.  Professor  Fyffe  sat  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
stroking  the  silk-clad  ankle  that  rested  on  his  knee. 
In  the  corner,  by  the  fireplace,  sat  Daniel  Plow  with 
his  pipe,  listening  to  the  conversation  of  the  other 
two. 

The  cigar,  the  cigarette,  and  the  pipe,  were  char- 
acteristic of  the  smokers.  Neither  Babington  nor 
Fyffe  would  have  spoiled  the  shape  of  his  coat  by 
carrying  a  pipe  and  a  bag  of  tobacco  in  his  pocket. 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  43 

There  was  nothing  spruce  in  Plow's  appearance,  but 
his  carelessness  in  dress  could  not  conceal  the  splen- 
did strength  and  proportion  of  his  figure.  His  head 
was  large  and  finely  shaped,  and  he  conveyed  ah 
impression  of  thoughtfulness  and  force  which  made 
his  companions  seem  lighter  men,  by  contrast,  than 
they  really  were.  His  personality  was  rich  and  mel- 
low, and  there  was  something  in  the  light  of  his 
hazel  eyes  so  magnetic,  so  full  of  vitality,  that  few 
could  be  indifferent  to  their  strange  appeal. 

During  the  month  since  the  president's  advent  in 
Argos,  Fyffe  had  been  striding  into  his  favor  with 
seven-league  boots.  He  was  a  gentleman,  popular 
with  the  students  as  an  interesting  lecturer  and  the 
author  of  their  college  song,  and  he  had  produced  a 
brilliant  book.  He  was  perhaps  the  wittiest  after- 
dinner  speaker  in  the  state,  an  accomplishment  that 
made  him  indispensable  at  the  University  Club  in 
the  capital  and  at  student  celebrations  in  Argos. 
There  was  only  one  thing  that  weakened  his  influ- 
ence with  the  university  world.  Just  as  the  pro- 
fessor of  philosophy  was  often  called  an  atheist  by 
anxious  mothers  of  students,  so  Fyffe  was  regarded 
by  many  as  a  drunkard.  There  was  a  sufficient  basis 
of  truth  in  the  charge  to  weaken  what  might  other- 
wise have  been  a  remarkable  character  and  to  develop 
his  cleverness  and  adaptability  into  anxious  diplo- 
macy. 

Babington  and  Fyffe  were  gossiping  about  uni- 
versity affairs,  and  the  former  was  quietly  extract- 
ing information  without  seeming  to  do  so.  He  had 
asked  for  the  resignation  of  an  old  professor  whose 


44  THE   TORCH 

days  of  usefulness  were  passed,  but  a  storm  of  pro- 
test had  caused  him  to  withdraw  his  request.  The 
old  man  met  him  on  the  campus  and  shook  a  trem- 
bling finger  in  his  face  while  he  poured  forth  his  in- 
dignation. Word  came  from  Judge  Gates  also  that 
the  president's  action  was  "impracticable,"  and  he 
hastened  to  make  peace.  Babington  was  discussing 
the  incident  when  Brown  knocked  at  the  door. 

"I  had  no  personal  feeling,  of  course,"  he  re- 
marked, "and  it  was  my  intention  to  give  him  the 
salary  of  an  emeritus.  There  ought  to  be  some  limit 
of  age  at  which  a  man  should  retire;  then  all  fric- 
tion and  feeling  would  be  avoided  and  the  work  of 
the  university  would  not  suffer." 

"Of  course,"  Fyffe  assented,  "but  we're  young 
yet.  That  will  come  in  time.  Old  Dingley  is  very 
strong  in  the  state.  He  knows  the  governor  and 
grew  up  with  some  of  the  regents.  I  suppose  no  one 
has  a  larger  personal  following." 

The  president  saw  that  he  was  not  yet  strong 
enough  to  root  up  the  old  growths  of  the  place.  He 
shook  his  shoulders  impatiently  and  selected  a  letter 
from  the  pile  on  his  desk. 

"Here's  something  for  you,"  he  said,  flicking  it 
across  the  room  to  Plow.  "Can  you  catch  it?" 

Plow  stooped  and  picked  it  from  the  floor. 

"You're  no  good  any  more,"  Babington  remarked, 
laughing.  "You  never  used  to  let  anything  get  by 
you.  It's  a  request  for  an  address  from  a  labor 
union  in  the  capital.  I  haven't  time  for  those  fel- 
lows yet.  Besides,  it's  more  in  your  line.  I'll  write 


THE   PUBLIC    PULSE  45 

a  letter  for  you  to  the  arch-mechanic  by  way  of 
introduction." 

"I'll  go,  of  course,  Babington,"  said  Plow;  "but 
the  introduction  is  superfluous.  Those  fellows  know 
the  twang  of  my  vocal  cords  as  well  as  any  congre- 
gation knows  the  voice  of  its  own  minister.  They 
would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  president  winced  at  the  "Babington"  without 
the  title.  He  felt  that  Plow  was  really  inconsiderate 
and  tactless.  His  position  was  hard  enough  without 
the  additional  embarrassment  of  the  professor's  fa- 
miliarity. Lately  he  had  tried  to  convey  his  feeling 
of  the  necessity  of  a  change  by  addressing  his  old 
friend  as  'professor,'  or  by  omitting  his  name  en- 
tirely. Plow  did  not  take  the  hint  as  yet.  Though 
vaguely  conscious  of  something  wrong,  he  still  re- 
garded Babington  with  the  eyes  of  faith.  Some- 
times the  president's  embarrassment  made  him 
rude  and  cold.  It  was  significant  that  he  would 
not  have  thrown  the  letter  to  Fyffe  in  that  off-hand 
manner. 

"I'll  write  the  letter  nevertheless,"  he  announced, 
somewhat  sharply. 

"All  right,"  Plow  assented.  "It  can't  do  any 
harm,  and  I  guess  they  can  stand  me  once  more." 

"Look  at  this,"  the  president  resumed,  picking  up 
a  newspaper.  "Professor  Fyffe,  who  is  this  Father 
O'Toole?" 

The  large  vein  in  the  professor's  red  forehead 
grew  prominent  as  it  always  did  when  he  indulged  in 
one  of  his  silent  laughs. 


46  THE   TORCH 

"He's  a  windbag  who  lives  in  the  capital;  a 
mighty  clever  fellow,  too.  He's  very  much  given  to 
lecturing,  and  edits  a  paper.  Has  he  got  after 
you  already?  He  goes  gunning  for  us  in  his  edi- 
torials periodically." 

"I  should  say  so !"  Babington  exclaimed.  "Listen 
to  this :  'The  Catholics  have  again  had  good  cause 
to  view  with  suspicion  the  Protestant  politics  of  the 
State  University.  We  have  previously  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  several  ministers  of  Protestant 
denominations  are  members  of  the  faculty  of  this 
institution,  but  the  crowning  injustice  was  commit- 
ted in  the  choice  of  the  Reverend  Henry  Babington 
for  president.  Last  Sunday  he  preached  in  the  local 
church  of  his  own  denomination.  Imagine  for  a 
moment  what  a  protest  would  be  made  if  we  de- 
manded that  a  Catholic  priest  be  given  a  place  in 
the  faculty  at  Argos!  Yet  the  university  is  largely 
supported  by  Catholic  taxes,  and  many  of  our  young 
people  are  in  attendance.  It  is  time  for  us  to  carry 
the  war  into  Africa  and  to  found  a  Catholic  society 
in  the  university  on  the  same  lines  as  the  Protestant 
students'  clubs  now  there.' ' 

He  would  have  read  farther,  but  Plow  could  con- 
tain himself  no  longer  and  burst  into  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"The  Reverend  Henry  Babington !"  he  cried. 
"That's  the  best  yet !  Just  because  you  spoke  a  few 
words  to  the  Sunday-school !  I  knew  you  were  a 
good  fellow,  but  I  didn't  know  you  were  as  good  as 
all  that." 

The  president  turned  squarely  to  Professor  Fyffe. 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  47 

"What  truth  is  there  in  the  charge  that  we  have 
some  ministers  on  the  faculty?"  he  demanded. 

"Your  predecessor  had  charge  of  a  church  before 
he  became  connected  with  the  university,"  Fyffe  an- 
swered, "and  there  are  one  or  two  other  ex-minis- 
ters, though  no  one  would  ever  suspect  it  if  he  were 
not  told.  But  O'Toole  chooses  to  call  it  'Protestant 
proselyting.'  He  knows  you're  not  a  reverend  as 
well  as  I  do.  I  wouldn't  give  him  a  second  thought. 
He's  just  playing  to  his  own  gallery." - 

The  president  went  home,  somewhat  reassured 
by  Fyffe's  indifference  to  Catholic  sentiment,  but 
still  irritated  by  the  attack  and  more  than  ever  out 
of  patience  with  Plow.  He  picked  up  the  evening 
edition  of  The  Times,  the  leading  paper  in  the 
capital,  and  snapped  it  open  with  a  gesture  that 
warned  his  sister  to  refrain  from  unnecessary  con- 
versation. The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was 
this  heading:  "How  is  He  Going  to  Do  It?" 
Then  he  read  the  following  paragraph: 

"President  Babington,  of  the  State  University,  is 
quoted  upon  good  authority  as  having  said  that  he 
proposes  to  put  a  stop  to  the  text-book  scandal 
which  he  alleges  is  now  going  on  in  the  capital.  He 
claims  that  the  printing  of  school-books  by  the  state 
is  a  cause  of  much  corruption  in  politics,  and  that 
the  children  and  taxpayers  are  the  victims.  This  is 
an  old  charge  and  the  burden  of  proof  rests  on 
the  person  making  it.  President  Babington  is  to  be 
commended  for  his  enthusiasm,  but  he  may  find 
that  every  Don  Quixote  has  his  windmill.  Let  him 
produce  his  proofs  and  then  proceed  to  the  tilt.  We 


48  THE    TORCH 

await  developments  of  this  sensational  charge  with 
unfeigned  interest." 

The  president  put  down  the  paper  and  thought 
intently.  He  began  to  realize  that  behind  all  the  ap- 
plause of  the  multitude  there  lurked  a  spirit  of  free 
criticism  which  he  felt  to  be  impish  and  malicious. 
Judge  Gates'  comparison  of  his  position  with  a 
rocking  chair  flashed  into  his  mind.  It  was  the 
judge  that  had  interposed  to  prevent  the  retirement 
of  Dingley,  and  suddenly  he  remembered  that  it  was 
to  the  judge  he  had  confided  his  intention  in  regard 
to  the  school-book  scandal.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  the  man  was  a  traitor  to  him  ?  But  other  men 
were  present  at  the  time.  He  decided  to  give  Gates 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  but  to  use  every  effort  to 
win  his  support. 

At  the  table  he  showed  his  ill  humor  by  pushing 
his  letters  to  one  side  and  eating  in  silence.  He 
greeted  his  sister's  overtures  with  scant  courtesy, 
and  finally  began  to  open  his  letters  as  if  each  were  a 
personal  affront.  He  picked  up  a  dainty  note,  and 
his  brow  cleared  as  he  read  it.  Then  he  put  it  down 
and  gazed  at  his  sister  with  a  speculative  eye. 

"You  look  tired,  Carrie,"  he  remarked  kindly. 

"I  am  tired,  Henry,"  she  answered  in  plaintive 
gratitude.  "I  was  never  so  much  on  the  go  in  my 
life  as  since  we  came  here.  I  wish  people  wouldn't 
always  invite  me  to  their  dinners  and  receptions  just 
because  I'm  your  sister.  I  suppose  that's  another 
invitation."  She  sighed  wearily. 

"From  Mrs.  Van  Sant,"  he  said,  "to  dinner.  You 
remember  we've  met  her  several  times;  the  widow 


THE    PUBLIC    PULSE  49 

of  an  army  officer.  But  you  needn't  go  to  this. 
She's  not  connected  with  the  faculty,  so  there's  noth- 
ing of  official  importance  in  the  invitation.  I'll  tell 
her  you  were  indisposed,  if  you  like." 

"If  you  think  I'm  tired  enough  to  warrant  it," 
she  demurred  anxiously. 

"My  dear  Carrie,"  he  returned,  with  an  exasper- 
ated smile,  "the  word  'indisposed'  doesn't  specify 
whether  the  indisposition  is  physical  or  mental. 
Please  give  your  conscience  no  trouble  on  that 
score." 

She  was  grateful  for  his  sophistry,  and  they  dis- 
missed the  subject  with  mutual  relief.  She  was 
glad  to  escape  another  social  function,  and  he  was 
not  unwilling,  to  be  relieved  of  his  sister's  presence 
at  the  table  of  the  one  woman  in  Argos  that  had 
taken  his  fancy.  Though  he  would  not  have  ad- 
mitted it,  his  sister's  unworldliness  cast  a  suspicion 
of  newness  on  his  own  social  accomplishments. 
She  could  never  be  elegant,  in  spite  of  the  servants 
he  provided  and  the  gowns  he  made  her  wear.  She 
worshiped  her  brother  and  asked  only  the  privilege 
of  superintending  his  domestic  machinery. 

Babington  went  up  to  his  study,  surprised  at  the 
buoyancy  of  his  mood.  He  took  out  a  manuscript 
on  the  Eastern  question,  which  he  was  trying  to  fin- 
ish for  the  magazine  that  had  requested  him  to  write 
it.  This  was  his  first  evening  alone  since  coming 
to  Argos,  and  the  silence  of  the  house  fell  on  him 
like  a  blessing.  He  felt  that  he  would  like  to  devote 
all  his  time  to  scholarly  pursuits  and  to  the  perfect- 
ing of  his  literary  style.  He  had  long  loved  words 


50  THE   TORCH 

for  their  own  sake,  and  he  lingered  over  his  sen- 
tences with  the  same  careful  attention  that  he  de- 
voted to  the  cut  of  his  coat. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant's  note  lay  open  on  the  desk,  and 
he  put  the  sheets  of  his  manuscript  on  it  with  a 
humorous  appreciation  of  its  distracting  influence 
upon  his  mind.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he 
dropped  his  pen,  conscious  of  having  accomplished 
something  worth  while.  At  that  moment  the  anxie- 
ties of  his  position  seemed  unimportant. 

Suddenly  the  shrill  buzz  of  the  telephone  bell 
sounded  through  the  house.  He  went  into  the  hall 
and  seized  the  ear-drum  with  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing unusual,  perhaps  some  calamity,  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked.    "What  is  it  ?" 

"Is  this  President  Babington?" 

"Yes.    What  is  it?" 

"This  is  the  office  of  The  Times.  We  want  to 
know  what  will  be  the  amount  of  your  subscription 
to  the  fund  for  the  sufferers  in  India.  We  are  mak- 
ing up  a  special  page  for  Sunday." 

In  a  twinkling  the  president  saw  his  opportunity 
to  win  at  least  a  perfunctory  approval  from  this 
champion  of  suffering  humanity,  and  his  reply  was 
given  in  a  voice  both  cordial  and  sympathetic. 

"Put  me  down  for  fifty  dollars." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   PARTING  OF   THE   WAYS 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Babington,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Sant,  "that  your  sister  couldn't  come.  I  feel  that 
my  little  dinner  is  quite  incomplete  without  her." 

The  president  smiled  at  his  hostess. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I'm  sorry  she  was  indis- 
posed this  evening.  She's  not  very  strong,  and  I 
think  she  needs  a  little  rest.  If  she  doesn't  behave 
better  I  shall  have  to  send  her  to  Florida  to  recuper- 
ate." 

For  one  moment  the  ambiguity  of  that  playful 
word  "behave"  flashed  upon  him,  but  he  saw  no 
consciousness  of  it  in  any  face  and  recovered  his 
equipoise  before  he  had  lost  it.  He  was  in  his  hap- 
piest mood.  The  previous  Sunday  Times  had 
placed  his  subscription  to  the  sufferers  in  India  at 
the  head  of  the  list,  together  with  his  portrait,  and 
there  was  no  further  mention  in  the  paper  of  the 
school-book  scandal.  He  felt  that  fifty  dollars  was 
not  too  much  to  pay  for  the  silence  of  that  influen- 
tial sheet. 

"And  there's  Mr.  Plow,  too,"  she  continued.  "I 
had  intended  to  place  him  next  to  Miss  Babington, 
to  see  whether  he  could  convert  her  to  some  of  his 
pet  hobbies." 


52  THE   TORCH 

"Miss  Babington  is  to  be  congratulated  and  com- 
miserated in  the  same  breath,"  Lee  interposed; 
"congratulated  upon  escaping  a  lecture  on  the  in- 
iquities of  the  trusts,  and  commiserated  for  missing 
the  pleasure  of  one  of  your  charming  dinners." 

The  president  looked  across  the  table  at  the 
young  professor  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  and 
appreciation  in  his  eyes.  He  thanked  his  lucky 
star  that  this  was  the  very  night  of  the  speech  he 
had  sent  Plow  to  make  in  the  capital,  and  hoped 
people  would  realize  in  time  that  he  did  not  care  to 
meet  his  old  classmate  at  every  turn. 

"Professor  Plow  was  good  enough  to  take  a 
speech  off  my  hands,"  he  explained. 

"So  he  told  me,"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  returned,  "but 
perhaps  he  may  drop  in  later  and  give  us  an  account 
of  it.  Mr.  Everett,  what  do  you  think  of  his  the- 
ories? I'm  a  dull  scholar  in  such  subjects,  but  I 
suppose  you  know  all  about  them." 

"Indeed,  no,"  the  professor  answered,  with  his 
genial  smile.  "My  range  of  interests  is  narrow. 
I  try  to  heed  the  proverb  that  bids  a  shoemaker 
stick  to  his  last." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  my  opinion?"  Lee  de- 
manded. 

"Because  you  are  prejudiced.  That  wasn't  a 
very  nice  speech  you  made  about  Mr.  Plow  a  mo- 
ment ago,  but  as  it  was  coupled  with  a  compliment 
to  me,  I  had  to  overlook  it." 

"I  yield  my  part  in  the  discussion  to  Mr.  Lee," 
Professor  Everett  said.  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  looking  at 


THE   PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS      53 

him  as  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  was  reminded 
of  some  kind  of  beneficent  fowl.  His  scant,  rebelli- 
ous gray  hair,  combined  with  the  staring  effect  of 
his  near-sighted  eyes,  suggested  a  wise  old  owl  who 
has  learned  to  judge  kindly  of  his  fellows  and  has 
discovered  that  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun. 
She  divined  his  loyalty  to  his  absent  colleague  and 
his  wariness  of  fruitless  discussions  in  which  the  ele- 
ment of  personality  might  enter. 

Lee  accepted  the  permission  gaily,  and  contrived 
to  draw  Everett  into  the  argument,  in  spite  of  his 
evident  reluctance. 

As  Mrs.  Everett  listened  to  the  conversation,  she 
thought  Babington  could  never  forget  that  he  was 
president  of  the  university.  She  felt  that  he  tried  to 
emphasize  his  position  while  talking  with  one  who 
might  have  been  in  his  place,  and  almost  resented 
Mrs.  Van  Sant's  kind  intention'  in  bringing  the  two 
together.  She  could  not  accept  her  husband's  char- 
itable excuses  for  the  snub  the  president  had  given 
him  on  the  first  day  of  his  incumbency.  Babington, 
for  his  part,  had  forgotten  the  incident,  and  did  not 
detect  the  coldness  of  the  professor's  courtesy.  The 
conversation  became  general,  and  turned  upon  the 
president  of  the  nation. 

"To  be  perfectly  frank,"  said  Babington,  "I'd  be 
willing  to  trade  with  him  any  time.  I  don't  believe 
he  finds  it  as  difficult  to  manage  the  senate  as  I  do 
my  board  of  regents." 

"That's  the  way  with  me,"  Robert  put  in.  "The 
fellows  in  the  class  give  me  any  amount  of  trouble." 


54  THE   TORCH 

The  president  laughed  heartily  with  the  others. 

"If  any  one  offers  you  a  college  presidency,"  he 
said,  "shoot  him  on  the  spot." 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  raised  her  glass  and  sipped  a 
toast  to  her  stepson's  success  as  a  class  president. 
As  she  did  so,  Babington  noted  the  gleam  of  her 
white  arm  and  the  lace  that  fell  gracefully  about 
her  elbow.  He  felt  that  this  was  the  kind  of  woman 
he  might  love,  for  she  embodied  all  he  most  admired 
in  women.  He  appreciated  to  the  full  also  the  lux- 
ury with  which  she  was  surrounded, — the  quietly 
stepping  maids,  the  softly-shaded  candles,  the  deli- 
cate bouquet  of  the  wines,  the  floral  centerpiece,  the 
antique  plate.  He  encountered  all  these  things  with 
a  dignified  zest  of  enjoyment  to  which  his  hostess' 
presence  added  a  subtile  element  of  dawning  ro- 
mance. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant,  too,  was  enjoying  her  little  ex- 
periment. She  watched  the  president  with  grow- 
ing interest,  not  unmixed  with  amusement.  She 
thought  him  both  handsome  and  wholesome  in  ap- 
pearance, and  analyzed  the  contrast  presented  by 
the  weakness  of  his  short  nose  and  the  strength  of 
his  fine  chin.  There  was  a  fresh  and  youthful 
quality  in  his  nature  that  appealed  to  her,  and 
though  she  and  Mrs.  Everett  telegraphed  their  mu- 
tual appreciation  when  he  compared  himself  with 
the  president  of  the  United  States,  she  felt  that  it 
was  just  this  attitude  of  mind  that  would  enable 
him  to  take  the  world  by  the  throat  and  shake  the 
huge  monster  into  respectful  attention. 

When  coffee  was  served   in  the  drawing-room 


THE    PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS      55 

Robert  had  quietly  disappeared,  to  the  regret  of  no 
one.  Lee  felt  that  Babington  had  received  more 
than  his  share  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  attention  at  the 
table  and  planted  himself  on  a  divan  at  her  side. 

"It  is  one  of  the  disadvantages  of  being  an  old 
friend,"  he  said,  "that  I  must  play  the  second 
fiddle." 

She  gave  him  a  preoccupied  smile  as  she  handed 
a  cup  to  the  maid. 

"Here,  my  dear,  this  is  for  Mr.  Babington. 
Don't  forget  the  cigarettes  and  cigars." 

Lee,  struck  by  the  affectionate  tone  of  her  ad- 
dress, put  on  his  glasses  and  regarded  the  maid 
curiously. 

"A  beautiful  face  and  head,"  he  murmured. 
"She  would  do  for  a  picture  of  Psyche.  You 
would  never  dare  to  have  such  a  girl  as  that  in  the 
house  if  you  had  a  husband." 

"Not  if  you  were  playing  the  role,"  she  retorted. 
"I  can  see  that.  But  I'll  tell  you  about  her  pres- 
ently. It's  an  interesting  case.  She's  one  of  the 
» 

The  return  of  the  subject  of  their  conversation 
cut  her  short,  but  Lee  mentally  completed  the  ex- 
planation for  himself.  "One  of  the  three  graces," 
he  thought,  as  she  handed  him  a  cup.  She  seemed 
not  unconscious  of  the  admiration  in  his  eyes,  and 
he  thought  he  detected  a  certain  confusion  and  re- 
sentment in  her  own.  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  hint  and 
his  own  intuition  told  him  that  the  girl  was  not  a 
servant  by  profession,  and  though  he  had  never 
seen  her  before,  he  suspected  that  she  was  a  student 


56  THE   TORCH 

of  the  university.  It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing 
for  girls  to  work  their  way  through  college.  Some- 
times, when  he  made  a  call,  one  of  his  own  students 
opened  the  door,  but  he  reflected  that  they  did  not 
seem  to  be  of  the  class  to  which  this  girl  belonged. 
Perhaps  she  was  a  candidate  for  one  of  the  sorori- 
ties, and  this  evening's  service  was  a  task  of  her 
novitiate.  It  was  like  the  women  students,  he 
mused,  to  imitate  the  pranks  of  the  men. 

Mrs.  Everett  found  herself  next  to  the  president, 
and  they  exchanged  their  first  personal  remarks 
to  each  other  that  evening.  He  was  still  in  the 
best  of  spirits  and  puffed  placidly  at  his  cigar  while 
he  talked  of  a  recent  visit  to  England. 

"I  don't  care  much  for  Englishmen,"  he  re- 
marked. "They're  insular  and  prejudiced.  Ger- 
man scholarship  and  methods  were  first  appreciated 
in  America,  but  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  five 
hundred  years  behind  the  times.  They  still  swear 
by  their  Greek  play  bishops,  they  still  write  pretty 
Latin  verses  in  the  schools,  and  they  think  a  man 
is  a  nobody  who  doesn't  belong  to  the  established 
Church." 

Mrs.  Everett  was  stirred  instinctively  to  protest, 
not  so  much  against  the  substance  of  his  strictures 
as  against  his  manner  of  uttering  them.  She  had 
heard  her  husband  make  similar  observations,  but 
in  a  different  spirit,  in  a  spirit  tempered  by  an  ap- 
preciation of  America's  debt  to  English  religious 
and  scholastic  culture.  She  noted  that  there  was 
something  personal  in  Babington's  criticism,  and 


THE   PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS      57 

that  he  gave  it  as  if  it  were  a  discovery  of  his  own. 
He  seemed  to  belong  to  that  large  class  of  Amer- 
icans who  have  learned  hostility  to  England  in  the 
public  schools. 

"Aren't  you  rather  hard  on  them  ?"  she  suggested. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a  gleam  of  dislike  in  his 
round,  gray  eyes.  With  Mrs.  Van  Sant  he  was 
charming  and  compliant,  but  he  felt  Mrs.  Ever- 
ett's hostility  and  returned  it.  Their  conversation 
was  becoming  an  argument,  when  he  turned  ab- 
ruptly to  her  husband. 

"How  about  that  instructor  you  were  trying  to 
get  for  the  Latin  department?"  he  asked.  "What's 
his  name?" 

"Doctor  Eyres,"  Everett  answered.  "He  took 
his  degree  last  year  with  high  credit  and  seems  a 
strong  man.  He  writes,  however,  that  he  can't 
support  himself  and  his  wife  on  nine  hundred  a 
year.  I  need  him,  for  Brown  is  really  overworked." 

"I  suppose  Eyres'  wife  has  no  money  either," 
Babington  remarked  irritably.  "Why  don't  those 
young  men  marry  girls  with  money?  It  would  be 
a  fair  exchange  for  position.  Look  at  Barnes.  He 
hadn't  a  cent,  but  he  married  a  rich  woman,  and 
she  made  him  what  he  is  to-day." 

"After  all,"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  interposed,  "I  like 
the  independence  of  our  American  men.  The  kind 
of  marriage  you  suggest,  Mr.  Babington,  might 
not  always  be  conducive  to  happiness." 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded.  "Why  shouldn't 
a  young  man  use  common  sense  in  choosing  a  wife  ? 


58  THE   TORCH 

It's  a  fair  bargain  on  both  sides.  He  gives  her 
position,  and  she  gives  him  the  means  to  maintain 
it." 

"I'm  afraid  your  experience  in  affairs  of  the 
heart  has  been  limited,"  she  retorted,  with  a  charm- 
ing smile.  "Even  a  woman  that  has  money  likes 
to  think  she  is  chosen  for  herself." 

Lee  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"There's  no  subject  so  interesting  as  that  of 
matrimony,"  he  remarked,  "especially  to  the  un- 
married." 

"And  they  are  in  the  majority  here,"  Mrs.  Van 
Sant  said. 

The  president  apparently  shared  her  appreciation 
of  the  situation,  and  joined  in  her  laughter,  but  he 
glanced  at  Lee  with  sudden  suspicion.  He  was 
not  sure  that  he  liked  the  young  professor  as  well 
as  he  thought  he  did  at  the  beginning  of  the  dinner, 
and  showed  his  change  of  feeling  by  ignoring  him 
as  he  had  previously  ignored  Mrs.  Everett. 

As  soon  as  decency  permitted,  Lee  uncoiled  his 
long  legs  and  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Everett  gave  the 
signal  to  her  husband,  and  the  three  took  their 
leave  together.  When  Lee  left  them  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  Mrs.  Everett  burst  out  in  a  manner 
that  caused  her  husband  some  astonishment. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  Sue  Van  Sant,  and  as  for  that 
man,  I  positively  hate  him!" 

Everett  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  man  in 
question  was  not  the  one  that  had  just  left  them. 

"It's  a  comfort  to  know  that  we're  not  called  upon 
either  to  like  or  dislike  him,"  he  replied. 


THE    PARTING    OF   THE   WAYS      59 

"But  we  can't  help  it,"  she  persisted.  "He  has 
been  just  as  nasty  to  both  of  us  as  he  could  possibly 
be." 

"I  thought  he  seemed  much  taken  with  Mrs.  Van 
Sant,"  he  suggested,  anxious  to  change  the  drift  of 
the  conversation. 

Mrs.  Everett  laughed. 

"She  is  entertaining  herself  with  him  as  she  does 
with  Lee  and  Plow.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything 
more  delicious  than  Lee's  comment  on  that  matri- 
monial discussion?" 

"His  gift  for  sarcastic  comment  will  get  him 
into  trouble  some  day,"  he  remarked. 

"It  has  already,  a  hundred  times;  but  he  doesn't 
care.  The  more  trouble  he  stirs  up,  the  sweeter 
and  more  innocent  his  smile  becomes.  I  could  see 
that  he  was  furious  with  Mrs.  Van  Sant  to-night. 
But  she'll  never  marry  that  man.  She  sees  through 
him  as  well  as  I  do.  You  can  imagine  how  amused 
she  was  to  hear  him  expatiate  upon  the  'position' 
of  university  instructors  after  her  army  experience. 
Wait  a  moment." 

She  stopped  to  gather  her  silk  skirt  over  her  arm, 
for  the  sidewalk  was  wet.  As  they  went  on  she 
reflected  bitterly  that  it  was  a  long  time  since  they 
had  gone  to  an  entertainment  in  a  carriage,  cer- 
tainly not  since  the  babies  had  come.  She  noted 
with  a  keen  pang  that  her  husband's  evening  coat 
could  be  seen  below  his  overcoat.  With  an  impulse 
of  tenderness  she  suddenly  drew  him  into  the 
shadow  of  a  tree  and  kissed  him. 


60  THE   TORCH 

The  president  needed  little  urging  to  be  induced 
to  take  a  second  cigar.  He  was  alone  with  his 
hostess  at  last,  and  he  reflected  that  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  enjoyed  the  privilege.  They  were 
discussing  a  recent  book  of  Irish  ballads.  He 
turned  over  the  pages  at  random  and  read  passages 
in  his  fine  voice.  It  was  an  unexpected  revelation 
of  the  man,  and  she  listened  with  attentive  interest. 
Presently  a  phrase  struck  a  chord  of  memory  in 
her  mind,  and  she  interrupted  him  with  a  little 
exclamation  of  discovery. 

"Mr.  Babington,"  she  demanded,  "did  you  ever 
write  poetry?" 

He  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"The  sins  of  my  youth,"  he  rejoined.  "You 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  one  of  them  has  come 
home  to  roost?" 

"Indeed  it  has,"  she  assented  gaily.  "If  you'll 
wait  a  moment  I'll  bring  it  to  you." 

She  left  the  room  and  ran  upstairs.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  returned,  her  eyes  bright  with  amuse- 
ment and  excitement,  her  fine  red  hair  somewhat 
disordered  by  her  flight.  Babington  regarded  her 
with  an  expression  in  which  embarrassment  and 
admiration  were  curiously  blended. 

"I  hope  it  isn't  one  of  my  very  earliest,"  he  said. 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  began  to  turn  the 
leaves  of  a  little,  red-bound  book.  It  was  a  scrap- 
book  of  poetry,  filled  to  the  last  page  and  stuffed 
with  many  loose  clippings  besides. 

"This  collection  represents  all  stages  of  my  ap- 
preciation," she  remarked.  "I  suppose  you  would 


have  had  the  book  carefully  indexed,  but  I  don't 
know  where  to  find  anything  I  want.  Where  is 
it?  You  mustn't  despise  my  unscholarly  ways. 
Here  it  is!" 

She  held  up  a  clipping  triumphantly  and  began 
to  read.  It  was  a  poem  on  nature,  and  Babington 
felt  that  the  verses  were  sentimental,  in  spite  of  the 
reader's  charming  rendering.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished he  took  the  clipping  and  examined  it  curi- 
ously. 

"I  see  it  is  from  a  newspaper,"  he  remarked. 
"It  must  have  been  copied  from  the  magazine  in 
which  it  originally  appeared.  I  didn't  know  my 
muse  had  been  so  honored.  I  was  very  young 
when  I  wrote  that.  I  haven't  written  a  line  of 
poetry  for  fifteen  years." 

"I've  had  it  about  that  time,"  she  rejoined,  re- 
placing it  in  the  book.  "Of  course  it's  youthful, 
but  I  like  the  spirit  of  it.  Why  don't  you  write 
some  poetry  now?" 

"Perhaps  life  has  sobered  me,"  he  suggested. 

"Then  I  would  reverse  the  old  saying  and  ap- 
peal from  Philip  sober  to  Philip  drunk.  Perhaps 
one  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  being  ashamed  of  the 
intoxication  of  youthful  fancy." 

He  unraveled  the  epigram  slowly.  She  was 
making  him  talk  about  himself,  not  the  newer  self 
he  had  upbuilt  with  such  care,  but  about  the  self 
whose  native  impulses  he  had  come  to  regard  as 
a  weakness.  To  think  that  his  forgotten  and  de- 
spised verses  should  be  a  passport  to  the  regard  of 
this  woman! 


62  THE   TORCH 

"I  used  to  think  I  should  be  a  great  poet  some 
day,"  he  said  with  amused  frankness,  "and  even 
after  I  left  college  I  cherished  the  delusion  for 
a  while.  But  I  soon  found  out  that  this  isn't  an 
age  of  poetry.  It  wasn't  the  thing  I  was  fitted 
for,  after  all,  and  I  gave  it  up."  He  laughed 
genially.  "Why/  do  you  know,  when  you  asked 
me  whether  I  had  written  any  poetry  I  was  panic- 
stricken.  I  wondered  which  of  my  effusions  you 
were  going  to  face  me  with." 

He  paused  and  thoughtfully  flicked  the  ashes  of 
his  cigar  into  the  tray.  In  the  silence  the  fire 
crackled  comfortably  in  the  grate  and  intensified 
his  impression  of  seclusion  and  intimacy.  He 
looked  at  her  attentive  and  lovely  face  and  obeyed 
the  impulse  that  drove  him  on. 

"When  I  was  in  college  I  used  to  sit  alone  in  my 
room  on  winter  nights,  inspired  by  the  sound  of 
the  wind  in  the  trees,  by  a  glimpse  of  the  stars  be- 
yond my  window,  by  a  hundred  little  things  I  never 
notice  now.  This  moment  seems  to  bring  it  back 
to  me.  Philip  is  drunk  again." 

She  had  not  known  he  could  be  so  charming. 

"We  each  live  half  a  dozen  different  lives,"  she 
remarked.  "Perhaps  the  best  life  is  an  harmonious 
combination  of  them  all." 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  at  her  earnestness, 
as  a  man  will. 

"This  is  an  age  of  specialization.  A  jack  of  all 
trades  finds  himself  left  out  in  the  cold." 

The  expression  of  his  face  arrested  her  reply. 
He  had  grown  worldly  again.  "Out  in  the  cold!" 


THE    PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS      63 

The  fear  of  the  cold :  that  was  the  key  to  the  mys- 
tery. It  was  for  the  warm  place  that  he  had  come 
to  despise  his  early  dreams.  The  ringing  of  the 
bell  forestalled  her  reply.  A  rush  of  cold  air  pene- 
trated the  drawing-room,  and  in  another  moment 
Professor  Plow  stood  before  them.  He  had  not 
even  stopped  to  take  off  his  overcoat. 

The  personality  of  the  man  was  aggressive.  He 
brought  an  air  of  vigor  and  rough  endeavor  into 
the  exquisite  room.  Mrs.  Van  Sant  herself  re- 
lieved him  of  his  hat  and  coat  and  put  them  in  the 
hall. 

"It's  trying  to  rain  and  snow  at  the  same  time," 
Plow  exclaimed,  turning  his  back  to  the  fire,  "with 
the  chances  in  favor  of  the  snow  winning  out  at 
the  finish.  I've  just  come  from  a  rousing  good 
meeting."  He  stood  erect,  his  eyes  bright  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Tell  us  about  it,"  Mrs.  Van  Sant  begged.  "I'm 
glad  you  didn't  forget  your  promise  to  drop  in  on 
your  way  home.  What  did  you  say  to  them  ?" 

She  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  certain  unexpected 
restraint  in  the  president's  greeting  of  his  friend, 
but  she  assigned  a  cause  not  unflattering  to  herself. 
She  thought  Plow  seemed  very  much  like  a  labor 
leader,  as  he  stood  there  in  his  rough  tweed  suit. 
The  steam  that  rose  from  his  damp,  rumpled  gar- 
ments was  like  the  smoke  of  battle  through  which 
he  had  passed. 

"Oh,  much  the  same  old  story,"  he  said.  "I 
took  for  my  subject  The  Coming  Conflict.  When 
I  see  those  poor  fellows  I  always  think  that  I  should 


64  THE   TORCH 

have  been  just  like  them  if  I  hadn't  had  better  op- 
portunities. I  tell  you,  some  of  those  mechanics 
keep  a  man  on  the  jump  trying  to  answer  their 
questions.  They  read,  those  fellows  do.  One  old 
man  wanted  to  know  why  it  was  that  four  thousand 
millionaires  owned  over  twenty  per  cent,  of  the 
wealth  of  the  country;  why  one  family  "in  each 
hundred  could  buy  out  the  other  ninety-nine  and 
have  something  over." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  it  was  due  to  brains?" 
Babington  asked,  with  a  curious  smile.  But  Plow 
was  in  no  humor  for  jests. 

"No,  sir,"  he  cried,  with  a  wide  sweep  of  his 
arm,  as  if  he  were  still  before  an  audience,  "I 
couldn't  conscientiously  give  them  any  such  answer. 
I  told  them  that  it  was  the  paradox  of  the  century 
to  see  the  congestion  of  wealth  in  the  hands  of  the 
privileged  few,  in  spite  of  the  wide  diffusion  of 
education  among  the  masses.  I  told  them  no  man's 
services  were  worth  a  salary  of  a  million  dollars  a 
year.  I  told  them  we  were  paying  tribute  now  to 
emperors  of  steel  and  kings  of  oil,  instead  of  to  the 
old-fashioned  kind  of  kings.  These  are  our  robber 
barons." 

The  president's  face  had  grown  immovable  and 
hard.  Was  this  the  man  he  had  sent  as  his  ac- 
credited representative  ? 

"What  solution  did  you  recommend?"  he  asked 
coldly. 

"Cooperation,"  said  Plow,  "union,  the  public 
ownership  of  public  utilities.  The  wealth  of  the 


THE    PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS      65 

• 

country  belongs  to  the  people,  and  they  have  a  right 
to  claim  their  own,  for  they  have  created  it." 

He  sank  back  into  a  chair,  suddenly  weary,  and 
drank  the  glass  of  wine  his  hostess  offered  him. 

"The  university  has  a  place  in  all  this,"  he  con- 
tinued. "That's  what  I  tell  the  young  men  in  my 
classes.  I  want  them  to  realize  their  opportunities 
and  responsibilities.  I  want  them  to  be  on  the 
right  side  when  the  line  is  drawn.  That's  why 
I  love  my  profession.  I  feel  that  I  can  be  a 
connecting  link  between  the  educated  men  and  the 
masses.  I'm  glad  I'm  teaching  in  a  state  institu- 
tion, an  institution  for  the  people,  not  created  with 
conscience  money  to  tickle  the  vanity  of  an  individ- 
ual. We  can  say  what  we  please  and  extend  a  help- 
ing hand  to  the  men  who  need  it  most.  You  re- 
member we  used  to  discuss  these  subjects  in  college, 
Babington.  Things  have  grown  worse  since  then." 

"I  should  say  rather  better,"  the  president  an- 
swered distinctly.  "I  think  the  trusts  are  a  benefit 
to  the  country." 

Plow's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  stared  at  his  old 
classmate  with  incredulity.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  attack  with  renewed  vigor,  anxious  only  to  win 
a  convert,  and  unsuspicious  of  the  complicated  emo- 
tions that  were  raging  in  the  other's  heart. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  never  greater  need  of  her 
social  experience.  She  put  in  a  word  here,  a  tact- 
ful suggestion  there,  and  finally  succeeded  in  turn- 
ing the  conversation  to  another  channel.  But  the 
effort  was  exhausting,  and  she  was  greatly  relieved 
when  her  guests  went  away  together. 


66  THE   TORCH 

"If  those  two  ever  come  to  my  house  again  at 
the  same  time,"  she  reflected,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  "I  shall  put  them  in  different  rooms. 
And  I  thought  they  were  Jonathan  and  David!" 
Suddenly  she  was  struck  by  something  she  had 
scarcely  noticed  when  they  were  present — Babing- 
ton's  evident  dislike  of  Plow,  in  spite  of  the  latter's 
devotion  to  him.  The  president  alone  had  made 
the  argument  bitter  and  personal. 

The  two  men  walked  to  the  corner  together. 
The  hour  was  late,  and  no  one  saw  them  as  they 
stood  talking  beneath  the  naked  branches  of  the 
trees,  their  hats  and  shoulders  whitened  by  the 
gently-falling  flakes  of  the  first  snow. 

"And  one  thing  more,"  the  president  said.  "I 
noticed  you  called  me  'Babington'  to-night.  I 
wouldn't  mind  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  know, 
but  we  must  be.  more  careful,  more  formal.  We 
don't  want  any  talk  about  favoritism;  you  under- 
stand? That,  and  a  little  more  caution  in  your 
public  utterances.  The  conditions  are  unfortunate, 
but  we  must  conform  to  them.  Good  night." 

Plow  did  not  seem  to  see  the  outstretched  hand. 
His  heart  was  hot  within  him.  He  was  wrestling 
fiercely  with  one  of  the  great  emotional  crises  of 
his  life.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  almost  dazed 
by  the  blow  from  the  man  he  had  loved.  Then,  in 
a  flash,  vague  doubts  rushed  back  upon  him  as 
convictions,  hard  and  fatal.  He  took  a  deep 
breath  that  was  almost  a  sob,  turned  squarely  about, 
and  strode  away  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    HINT   OF   HIDDEN    MILLIONS 

As  Babington  entered  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  drawing- 
room  Professor  Plow  rose  to  go.  Each  man  gave 
the  other  a  formal  salutation,  scrupulously  courte- 
ous. Plow  held  his  hostess  in  conversation  a  few 
moments  longer  and  then  went  away,  without  an- 
other look  at  the  president. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  knew  of  the  continuance  of  the 
estrangement  whose  beginning  she  had  witnessed 
in  that  room  about  a  month  before.  The  whole 
university  was  talking  about  it,  speculating  as  to 
the  cause,  the  extent,  and  the  probable  result. 
From  the  principals  in  the  affair  she  had  not  heard 
a  word.  The  professor's  reticence  invested  him 
with  a  new  dignity  and  interest.  She  had  scarcely 
expected  him  to  show  such  self-control  and  breed- 
ing, but  she  discovered  that  he  could  be  silent  about 
his  own  wrongs,  however  eloquent  he  might  be- 
come over  the  wrongs  of  a  class.  The  situation 
had  become  intensely  interesting  to  her,  and  a  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  unintentional  part  in  the 
estrangement  added  an  element  of  excitement  to 
the  drama. 

This  was  the  president's  second  call  since  the 
67 


68  THE   TORCH 

dinner,  and  he  had  begun  to  take  Mrs.  Van  Sant 
into  his  confidence.  She  was  not  indifferent  to  the 
compliment,  and  her  growing  knowledge  of  the 
university  machinery  gave  her  an  exhilarating  sense 
of  participation.  He  knew  instinctively  that  he 
would  make  but  poor  progress  in  her  regard  by 
showing  an  animus  toward  Plow.  He  appreciated 
the  advantage  of  his  position.  He  was  the  presi- 
dent, and  the  professor  was  a  subordinate.  He  was 
not  called  upon  to  explain  or  defend  his  attitude. 
In  the  nature  of  things,  this  silence  made  an  ap- 
peal to  her  imagination.  She  was  prepared  to  de- 
fend the  professor  with  the  loyalty  of  a  woman 
toward  the  man  that  is  devoted  to  her,  not  unwill- 
ing to  pique  the  man  that  had  taken  her  fancy. 
But  the  opportunity  was  denied  her,  and  both  men 
had  risen  in  her  estimation  in  consequence. 

This  afternoon  she  thought  the  president  un- 
usually interesting.  The  university  seemed  a  big- 
ger thing  than  she  had  considered  it  thus  far.  As 
Babington  indicated  some  of  his  plans  for  the  fu- 
ture she  lost  the  unacknowledged  scorn  of  mere 
state  enterprises  which  her  residence  at  the  capital 
of  the  nation  had  given  her. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  president  of  something,"  she 
sighed;  "something  more  vitally  interesting  than 
a  woman's  club.  I'm  sure  I  have  great  executive 
ability,  for  whenever  I  have  nothing  else  to  do  I 
roll  the  furniture  in  this  room  about.  I  should 
like  to  be  at  the  head  of  some  big  concern  and  put 
the  men  where  I  want  them,  just  as  I  put  these 
chairs."  She  made  a  pretty  gesture  with  her  hands, 


A"   HINT   OF   HIDDEN    MILLIONS     69 

as  if  she  were  arranging  the  pieces,  and  Babing- 
ton's  eyes  brightened  with  amusement  and  admira- 
tion. 

"The  difficulty  is  that  the  men  don't  always  stay 
put,"  he  replied.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
to  mention  Plow  as  an  instance,  but  he  stopped  in 
time.  She  was  curiously  disappointed  when  he 
made  the  application  general.  "The  greatest  need 
is  men  who  will  remain  'put,'  so  to  speak,  great 
teachers  and  specialists  who  will  attend  to  their 
work  and  let  the  executive  execute.  But  great 
teachers  cost  a  great  deal  of  money.  Even  after 
the  money  is  provided  the  teachers  can  not  always 
be  found.  You'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  few 
scholars  we  have  of  the  first  rank.  I  wouldn't  ad- 
mit it  to  an  Englishman,  but  it's  true." 

"Isn't  it  rather  hard  for  a  young  man  to  improve 
his  scholarship  under  present  conditions?"  she  sug- 
gested. "I've  heard  so  much  talk  about  small  sal- 
aries and  large  classes.  Mrs.  Everett  and  I  sur- 
prised a  young  instructor  with  a  broom  in  his  hand 
the  other  day,  when  we  went  to  call  on  his  wife. 
There's  another  man  I  always  meet  wheeling  a  baby 
carriage.  I  don't  suppose  he  gets  much  time  for 
study.  He  always  looks  half  asleep,  like  the  dor- 
mouse in  'Alice  in  Wonderland.' ' 

Instead  of  laughing  at  the  comparison,  he  drew 
himself  up  as  if  subtly  offended  by  the  stubborn 
facts  she  presented.  His  eyes  seemed  to  grow 
round,  with  just  the  suggestion  of  a  defiant  stare, 
and  his  manner  was  touched  with  pomposity. 

"They're  lazy,"  he  declared,  "or  unwise.    'Where 


70  THE   TORCH 

there's  a  will  there's  a  way.'  They  give  up  their 
high  ideals  too  easily,  and  are  only  too  glad  to  ex- 
cuse themselves  by  laying  the  blame  on  external 
conditions.  My  experience  has  taught  me  that  the 
exceptional  man  can  always  solve  the  problem." 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  sent  forth  five  slow,  sil- 
very notes,  and  she  rose  from  her  chair. 

"This  is  my  time  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  an- 
nounced. "I  wish  I  were  half  as  regular  in  my 
prayers  as  in  my  potations.  Won't  you  join  me?" 

While  she  busied  herself  in  preparations  he  sat 
steeped  in  comfort  and  expectation.  The  Decem- 
ber twilight  was  coming  on,  and  through  the  half- 
drawn  curtains  he  could  see  the  street  lamps  dotting 
the  deepening  shadows.  The  cold  winter  sunset 
faded  away  in  austere  grandeur  beyond  the  roofs 
and  trees.  Then  he  turned  his  gaze  within  and 
saw  the  blue  flame  of  the  alcohol  lamp  curling  and 
lapping  about  the  little  brazen  kettle,  behind  which 
she  sat  banked  with  cushions,  smiling,  radiant. 
Above  her,  on  the  wall,  was  a  plaster  representation 
of  a  Victory  taking  off  her  sandals.  The  pictures 
of  the  room  were  now  indistinguishable,  but  their 
frames  shone  in  dim  streaks  of  gold.  From  a 
corner  the  pale  head  of  the  Hermes  of  Praxiteles 
looked  down  on  the  scene,  like  a  beautiful  ghost. 

"I  know  where  you  can  get  some  money  for  the 
university,"  she  remarked  presently,  smiling  at  him 
over  the  edge  of  her  lifted  teacup.  "Kate  Tupper, 
of  course." 

"And  who  is  this  generous  Kate  Tupper?"  he 
asked,  suspecting  a  jest. 


A    HINT   OF   HIDDEN    MILLIONS     71 

"Kate's  worth  millions,  positively  millions,"  she 
went  on  with  relish,  "and  she  hasn't  a  chick  nor  a 
child  to  give  it  to,  nor  even  a  near  relative."  Her 
enjoyment  moved  him  to  sympathetic  laughter. 

"You  must  describe  her  to  me,"  he  suggested. 
"You  must  explain  the  methods  by  which  she  is  to 
be  won  to  take  my — or  shall  I  say  our — view  of 
the  case." 

"But  she  can't  be  described.  She  must  be  seen 
to  be  believed.  There  now,  I'm  not  going  to  gos- 
sip about  Mrs.  Tupper.  Some  day  I'll  arrange  to 
have  you  meet  her." 

He  was  disappointed  by  the  arrival  of  Lee  and 
Trumbull.  It  seemed  his  fate  to  be  interrupted 
whenever  his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Van  Sant  be- 
came peculiarly  interesting. 

"Mr.  Trumbull,"  she  said,  "may  I  make  use  of 
your  inches  to  light  the  chandelier?" 

"I  brought  him  in,"  Lee  explained,  "to  show  you 
some  of  his  Greek  coins.  I  knew  you'd  be  inter- 
ested. He  has  been  carrying  them  about  in  his 
pockets  like  a  miser  for  months." 

Trumbull  turned  from  lighting  the  gas  and  scat- 
tered a  handful  of  his  treasures  on  the  table. 

"Here's  one,"  he  said,  "stamped  with  the  face  of 
Hiero  of  Syracuse.  It  looks  like  a  quarter  at  first 
sight,  doesn't  it?  I  gave  it  to  a  conductor  the 
other  day  by  mistake  and  had  a  great  time  getting 
it  back."  He  went  on  to  describe  the  incident,  and 
the  president  was  much  amused. 

"Doctor  Trumbull,"  he  said,  "there's  only  one 
way  I  know  of  to  keep  those  coins  safe  from  the 


72  THE    TORCH 

fingers  of  designing  street-car  conductors.  You 
must  put  them  behind  a  glass  case  in  the  university 
museum." 

"I  will,"  the  young  man  answered,  "but  I  can't 
bring  myself  to  do  it  yet.  The  sense  of  possession 
is  too  sweet." 

"He  has  thousands  of  them,"  Lee  volunteered. 
"He  can  spare  us  a  few  hundred  just  as  well  as  not. 
You  ought  to  see  his  rooms.  I  never  go  in  there 
without  a  superstitious  shiver,  for  the  place  reminds 
me  of  a  cemetery.  He  has  rows  of  Greek  grave- 
stones lined  up  against  the  walls.  I've  no  doubt 
he  sank  to  the  lowest  depths  of  bribery  to  get  them 
away  from  their  native  land." 

"I  did,"  Trumbull  admitted,  with  a  flash  of  his 
white  teeth.  "Those  degenerate  mongrels  are  full 
of  sentiment  about  the  'bones  of  their  ancestors,' 
as  they  are  pleased  to  call  them."  He  took  the  cup 
of  tea  which  his  hostess  handed  him  and  set  it  down 
on  the  table  untasted,  while  he  continued  to  talk 
with  the  president.  The  subject  was  one  that  al- 
ways aroused  him  to  unwonted  loquacity. 

Babington  had  paid  scant  heed  to  Lee's  remarks, 
and  now  confined  his  attention  entirely  to  the 
archaeologist.  Mrs.  Van  Sant  listened  while  they 
compared  impressions  of  Greece,  and  reflected  that 
Trumbull  really  did  seem  a  foreign  count,  with  his 
ruddy  complexion,  the  black  imperial  on  his  nether 
lip,  and  the  trilling  pronunciation  of  his  r's.  Once 
she  ventured  a  remark,  but  he  glanced  at  her  with 
a  cold  look  of  unconscious  rudeness,  and  then  con- 
tinued the  conversation  with  the  person  he  found 


A   HINT   OF   HIDDEN    MILLIONS     73 

most  interesting.  She  was  quick  to  divine  the 
president's  attitude  toward  Lee  and  Trumbull's  in- 
difference to  herself. 

"Mr.  Lee,"  she  said,  "come  over  here  and  play 
that  gavotte  of  Dreyschock  for  me.  It  won't  dis- 
turb this  learned  conversation,  I'm  sure." 

Lee  seated  himself  at  the  grand  piano  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  room.  His  long  fingers  played  over 
the  keys  like  a  breath  of  wind  on  a  harp.  She 
stood  beside  him,  listening  intently.  He  never 
seemed  as  fine  to  her  as  when  seated  at  the  piano 
playing  in  his  easy,  nonchalant,  inspired  way,  his 
head  thrown  back,  the  latent  ideality  of  his  nature 
breaking  through  his  more  usual  mood  of  light 
cynicism. 

The  president  fidgeted,  became  distrait,  and  al- 
lowed the  conversation  to  lag.  From  time  to  time 
he  glanced  uneasily  toward  the  piano,  but  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him  and  Trum- 
bull.  She  urged  Lee  to  play  again  and  again,  but  at 
last  he  rose  to  go. 

"Mr.  Lee  always  fills  me  with  envy,"  she  re- 
marked, as  she  came  forward,  "and  yet  I  torment 
myself  by  making  him  show  me  how  much  better 
he  can  play  my  favorite  pieces  than  I  can  play  them 
myself.  My  hands  are  so  small  that  I  can't  strike 
an  octave  accurately."  She  held  them  up  and  re- 
garded them  with  a  rueful  expression.  "I  hate  a 
small  hand;  it  always  looks  so  incompetent."  She 
was  well  aware  that  at  least  two  of  the  men  pres- 
ent were  fascinated  by  those  small  hands  and  by 
her  arraignment  of  them. 


74  THE    TORCH 

"You  ought  to  have  my  long  antennae,"  the  mu- 
sician remarked. 

"I  suspect  a  Beethoven  was  lost  to  the  world  in 
you,  Mr.  Lee,"  Babington  said,  with  an  effort  at 
courtesy. 

"To  make  an  indifferent  professor,"  Lee  supple- 
mented lightly.  "Mrs.  Van  Sant,  if  we  stay  any 
longer  you  will  be  compelled  to  invite  us  to  dinner." 

"I  wish  you  would  stay,"  she  answered. 

"Discretion  is  the  better  part  of  hospitality,"  he 
said.  As  she  caught  his  expression  she  felt  that  he 
referred  rather  to  the  danger  of  an  inharmonious 
dinner  than  to  the  inconvenience  their  acceptance 
of  her  invitation  might  cause  her.  He  bowed  to 
her  and  to  the  president  with  great  suavity,  and  the 
two  friends  took  their  departure  together. 

Babington  was  not  slow  to  follow  their  example. 
On  the  way  home  he  discovered  that  he  regarded 
Lee  with  permanent  irritation,  and  he  strove  to 
turn  his  thoughts  to  a  pleasanter  subject.  His 
hostess'  reference  to  Mrs.  Tupper  came  back  to  his 
mind  and  teased  him  with  speculation.  What  a 
witch  she  was!  He  suspected  that  the  indescrib- 
able possessor  of  those  millions  was  a  myth  of  her 
own  fabrication. 


CHAPTER  VI 
TUPPER'S  WIDOW 

About  a  week  later  Babington  went  over  to  the 
capital  to  see  the  governor  by  appointment.  He 
invited  his  Excellency  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Uni- 
versity Club,  of  which  he  had  been  made  a  member 
upon  his  arrival  in  Argos.  A  plan  was  forming  in 
the  president's  mind  to  give  the  governor  an  honor- 
ary degree  at  the  university  and  to  admit  him  to 
membership  in  the  club.  There  was  ample  prece- 
dent for  the  action,  and  only  the  governor's  hostility 
to  the  university  stood  in  the  way.  Babington  be- 
lieved that  this  hostility  was  partly  feigned  to  win 
popular  approval,  and  partly  the  result  of  an  un- 
acknowledged jealousy.  The  governor  had  de- 
cided that  the  grapes  which  hung  beyond  his  reach 
in  his  youth  were  sour,  but  Babington  was  inclined 
to  think  that  his  Excellency  would  discover  a  dif- 
ferent flavor  when  they 'were  placed  in  his  hand. 

During  the  lunch  he  said  very  little  about  the 
needs  of  the  university,  but  confined  himself  to 
topics  of  general  interest  and  to  the  telling  of  good 
stories.  In  the  genial  atmosphere  of  the  grill-room 
artificial  differences  and  supposed  hostilities  melted 
away,  and  when  Babington  parted  from  the  gover- 

75 


76  THE   TORCH 

nor  he  felt  that  his  efforts  to  establish  an  entente 
cordiale  had  not  been  altogether  in  vain. 

Babington's  predecessor  would  have  found  the 
task  impossible;  in  fact,  it  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  him  to  undertake  it,  for  he  was  a  scholar 
of  the  old  school,  a  mugwump  by  nature  and  edu- 
cation, and  would  as  soon  have  dined  with  the  devil 
as  with  a  political  boss.  But  Babington  saw  the 
necessity  of  agreeing  with  his  adversary  while  in 
the  way  with  him,  and  he  left  the  adversary  subtly 
flattered,  pleased,  almost  disarmed. 

When  they  parted  at  the  door  of  the  club  the 
president  turned  from  the  main  street  and  wandered 
away  without  definite  design.  He  wished  to  be 
alone  and  think.  The  afternoon  was  perfectly 
bright  and  cloudless.  A  recent  fall  of  snow  still 
lay  unsullied  in  the  less  frequented  thoroughfares. 
From  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  eaves 
of  the  houses  long,  glittering  icicles  depended  and 
sent  bright  drops  of  water  into  the  melting  snow. 

The  president  found  a  cigar  in  his  pocket  and 
lighted  it  with  a  sense  of  freedom  from  observation. 
Harmless  as  the  habit  was,  he  divined  that  many  of 
the  students  imposed  a  kind  of  ministerial  standard 
upon  him,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  offend  the  preju- 
dices of  that  class.  But  now  he  was  in  a  strange 
place,  and  the  feeling  of  being  lost  was  grateful  to 
him.  He  walked  on  and  on,  with  a  comfortable 
consciousness  of  having  scored  a  point  in  a  diffi- 
cult game,  and  moved  by  a  spirit  of  mild  adventure. 

He  looked  at  the  houses  he  passed  and  specu- 
lated idly  as  to  the  position  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 


TUPPER'S   WIDOW  77 

more  interesting.  Now  and  again  his  thoughts  re- 
verted to  Plow,  who  loomed  like  a  troublous  phan- 
tom in  the  background  of  his  consciousness.  The 
professor's  manner  somehow  conveyed  the  impres- 
sion of  having  dropped  the  president,  rather  than 
the  impression  of  having  been  dropped  by  him. 
Babington  began  to  realize  that  the  university 
might  not  be  big  enough  for  them  both,  and  hoped 
that  Plow  would  be  called  to  another  position. 

The  thought  of  the  professor  naturally  suggested 
Mrs.  Van  Sant.  What  was  his  standing  in  her 
house?  He  saw  that  Plow  and  Lee  were  her  chief 
admirers,  and  for  some  inexplicable  reason  he  re- 
sented Plow's  admiration  more  than  he  did  Lee's. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  he  felt  that  Lee  was  too  old 
a  friend  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  to  be  her  lover.  Then 
he  smiled  to  think  that  he  should  consider  either  of 
them  in  that  connection,  and  admitted  to  himself 
that  he  had  become  vitally  interested  in  her  likes- 
and 'dislikes. 

When  he  reached  this  conclusion  he  looked  up  to 
find  himself  standing  before  an  old  house  set  well 
back  from  the  street.  The  size  of  the  grounds,  and 
especially  the  appearance  of  neglect  which  the  whole 
place  presented,  arrested  his  attention.  Here  was 
evidently  an  example  of  the  transitory  nature  of 
riches.  He  stood  by  the  gate  and  glanced  up  and 
down  the  long  line  of  the  fence.  In  some  places  it 
was  broken  and  lying  flat  on  the  ground.  Each 
picket  of  the  part  that  still  stood  was  capped  by  a 
little  hood  of  snow  that  invested  the  ruin  with  a 
transient  beauty. 


78  THE   TORCH 

Far  off,  under  a  tree,  he  noticed  an  old-fashioned 
carriage,  its  wheels  warped  this  way  and  that,  its 
dash-board  rent,  the  cushions,  once  so  elegant,  rot- 
ting in  the  weather.  There  were  no  tracks  of 
wheels  leading  to  the  dilapidated  stable. 

The  gate  at  which  he  stood  was  directly  oppo- 
site the  front  door  of  the  house.  He  noted  the  two 
long  lines  of  intervening  maples,  and  was  reminded 
of  the  street  of  a  New  England  village.  In  various 
places  on  the  grounds  he  saw  stone  and  iron  stat- 
ues of  animals  and  mythological  creatures ;  here 
a  deer,  there  an  iron  mastiff,  yonder  a  ruined  grotto 
guarded  by  a  figure  of  Pan. 

The  house  itself  confirmed  these  evidences  of  a 
bygone  taste.  The  architect  had  evidently  in- 
dulged a  riotous  fancy.  There  was  one  large  cen- 
tral tower,  and  a  wealth  of  bow  windows.  About 
the  lower  story  ran  a  veranda,  the  roof  held  up  by 
slender  iron  supports  of  an  intricate  open  pattern 
that  had  long  since  lost  almost  every  vestige  of  the 
green  paint  with  which  they  were  once  adorned. 
The  plaster  on  the  walls  had  dropped  off  in  unsightly 
patches,  disclosing  the  bricks  beneath.  The  builder 
had  spared  no  expense,  and  Babington  smiled  to 
imagine  with  what  pride  he  had  viewed  his  inhar- 
monious mansion.  A  narrow  footpath  between  the 
maples  showed  that  the  house  was  still  inhabited. 
He  looked  more  closely  and  saw  a  faint  curl  of 
smoke  issuing  from  one  of  the  chimneys. 

Babington's  curiosity  was  actively  aroused  and 
he  looked  down  the  street  in  search  of  some  one  of 
whom  he  might  inquire  the  history  of  the  place. 


TUPPER'S    WIDOW  79 

An  old  woman  turned  the  corner  and  came  toward 
him.  A  shawl  enveloped  her  head,  and  she  car- 
ried a  market  basket  on  her  arm.  As  she  drew 
near  he  saw  that  she  intended  to  enter  the  gate,  and 
supposed  that  he  had  met  the  caretaker  of  the  place. 

A  second  glance  caused  him  to  doubt  his  first 
impression,  for  with  habitual  accuracy  in  observ- 
ing details  he  noted  the  camel's-hair  shawl  and  the 
silk  of  the  woman's  skirt.  Her  eyes  met  his  with 
a  flash  of  recognition,  and  he  raised  his  hat. 

"Can  you  tell  me  who  lives  here?"  he  asked. 
"Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  who  used  to  live  here,  for 
the  place  looks  as  if  it  had  a  history." 

"I  know  you,"  she  returned,  much  as  one  might 
say,  "I  saw  you  kill  cock  robin."  Then  she  proved 
her  assertion  by  adding,  "You're  Professor  Bab- 
ington,  who  has  come  to  run  the  college  over  in 
Argos." 

'.'Then  you  have  the  advantage  of  me,"  he  an- 
swered pleasantly. 

"Everybody  was  at  the  inauguration,"  she  ex- 
plained. "Curiosity." 

He  could  think  of  no  rejoinder,  and  repeated  his 
question  in  regard  to  the  house. 

"Mine,"  she  said,  tapping  her  breast;  "all  mine. 
Everything  on  the  place  is  mine  to  do  with  as  I 
please." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  note  of  defiance  in 
the  declaration  that  moved  him  to  wonder. 

"Of  course,"  he  assented. 

"I  see  you've  got  good  sense,"  she  said  approv- 
ingly. "There's  some  that  haven't  got  sense 


80  THE   TORCH 

enough  to  mind  their  own  business;  but  old  Kate 
Tupper  can  take  care  of  herself  all  right,  even  if  she 
is  alone  in  the  world." 

So  this  was  Kate  Tupper!  He  saw  now  that 
she  was  no  myth,  and  wondered  whether  she  were 
as  rich  as  Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  said. 

"The  builder  of  this  house  must  have  been  a 
prominent  man  in  these  parts,"  he  ventured. 

"He  built  the  first  railroad  through  this  state," 
she  declared  proudly,  "and  the  first  street-car  track 
in  this  town,  and  the  first  bank,  and  the  first  every- 
thing. But  he  got  kind  o'  foolish  in  his  old  age — 
wanted  to  give  all  his  money  to  that  college  of 
yours.  I  put  a  stop  to  that." 

He  saw  at  last  the  extent  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant's 
jest.  She  must  have  known  of  this  intention  and 
its  frustration. 

"How  was  that?"  he  asked.  "Was  he  a  gradu- 
ate of  the  university  ?" 

She  sniffed  scornfully. 

"Graduate  of  nothing !  Why,  that  college  wasn't 
even  thought  of  when  he  came  here.  That's  what 
I  said  to  him.  'Lemuel,'  I  said,  'don't  be  a  fool. 
What  do  you  want  to  give  your  hard-earned  money 
to  that  measly  college  for?  What  good  would  that 
do?  You  never  needed  to  go  to  college.  What's 
the  use  of  giving  money  so  that  a  lot  of  lazy  scamps 
can  have  an  easy  time  of  it  when  they  ought  to  be 
earning  their  bread  and  butter,  so  that  they  can  go 
yelling  around  the  streets  when  honest  folks  are  in 
bed?'  That's  what  I  said  to  him,  and  he  saw  that 


TUPPER'S    WIDOW  81 

I  was  right.  So  he  left  it  all  to  me."  She  tapped 
her  breast  again,  with  the  same  air  of  defiance. 

As  Babington  listened  to  her  he  suspected  that 
her  mind  was  somewhat  affected.  The  mention 
of  the  bequest  the  old  man  had  intended  to  leave 
the  university  gave  him  an  inspiration.  In  spite 
of  the  hostility  she  expressed  to  the  cause  of  learn- 
ing, he  entertained  a  sudden  hope  that  he  might  in- 
duce her  to  fulfil  her  husband's  wishes.  It  was 
curious,  he  thought,  that  she  should  volunteer  to 
tell  him  about  it,  as  if  she  were  on  the  defensive. 
Was  that  the  meaning  of  her  defiance?  Did  she 
imagine  that  she  must  justify  herself  to  him?  It 
was  a  long  shot,  but  he  determined  to  risk  it. 

"What  you  say  about  the  foolishness  of  young 
men  in  college  is  only  too  true  in  many  cases,"  he 
admitted,  "but  I  think  outsiders  are  deceived  by 
the  noise  of  a  few.  They  don't  hear  the  great  ma- 
jority studying  night  after  night  in  their  rooms. 
The  men  that  make  the  noise  in  the  streets  are  the 
rich  men's  sons  who  don't  need  any  money.  We 
want  money  for  the  poor  fellows  who  don't  make 
any  noise.  They'll  make  a  noise  of  a  better  kind 
in  the  world  some  day." 

She  broke  into  a  sudden  wintry  grin. 

"You're  smooth,"  she  declared.  "I  like  you. 
Old  Tupper's  boy  was  one  of  the  noisy  kind. 
That's  why  I  turned  him  out  to  shift  for  himself, 
as  his  father  did  before  him.  His  sister  was  a 
hussy,  too.  It  was  the  best  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  them.  They  tried  the  law  on  me,  and  I 
had  to  give  them  something  to  cry  quits.  She's 


82  THE   TORCH 

dead,  and  he's  gone  off  for  good.  It'll  be  for  his 
own  good,  too,  not  to  come  back  here  fooling 
around  me.  But  come  in  and  sit  down.  I'm  an 
old  woman.  I  can't  stand  out  in  the  snow  all  the 
afternoon." 

He  took  her  basket,  and  the  sense  of  adventure 
with  which  he  had  begun  his  walk  deepened  as  he 
followed  her  up  the  narrow  path.  When  they 
reached  the  veranda  she  pushed  open  one  of  the 
windows  that  extended  to  the  floor,  instead  of  en- 
tering at  the  door. 

"The  lock  won't  work,"  she  grumbled.  "I  won't 
send  for  a  man  to  fix  it.  .  He'd  try  to  rob  me,  but 
they  can't  get  ahead  of  old  Kate.  And  there's  that 
hussy  of  a  servant.  She  could  no  more  go  to  mar- 
ket than  a  cat  could  fly,  so  I  have  to  go  myself,  at 
my  age,  or  else  get  robbed  by  the  butcher.  Cash, 
that's  what  I  pay.  I  won't  have  any  bills  coming 
into  my  house.  Thieves!" 

Babington  started  at  the  energy  with  which  she 
uttered  the  last  word.  He  half  expected  to  be  con- 
fronted in  the  dim  room  in  which  he  now  stood  by 
a  man  with  a  revolver,  who  should  demand  his 
money  or  his  life.  But  it  appeared  that  the  ex- 
clamation was  directed  against  the  absent  trades- 
people, and  he  took  heart  to  look  at  his  surround- 
ings. 

He  stood  in  a  dismal  room  of  great  size  and 
height.  In  the  dim  light  that  streamed  through  the 
rents  in  the  shutters  he  could  see  the  gleam  of  tall 
mirrors  and  tarnished  picture  frames.  There  was 
something  cold  and  forbidding  in  the  massive  mar- 


TUPPER'S   WIDOW  83 

ble  mantel  and  the  rigid  statues  in  the  corners. 
Cobwebs  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  dust  lay  thick 
on  the  surface  of  the  grand  piano.  Nothing  he  had 
ever  seen  impressed  him  as  quite  so  dismal  as  that 
great  room,  with  its  vulgar  display,  its  suggestion 
of  futile  aspiration  after  elegance.  He  shivered, 
for  there  was  no  fire  in  the  place,  and  he  felt  as  if 
he  were  standing  in  a  tomb. 

"I  haven't  used  this  room  since  Tupper  died," 
she  remarked.  She  led  the  way  through  a  long, 
dark  hall  and  opened  a  door  into  a  room  of  such 
different  character  that  he  could  scarcely  believe 
his  eyes.  It  was  a  cheerful  sitting-room,  with  a 
western  exposure.  The  sunlight  streamed  in  at  the 
windows  and  a  generous  fire  of  coals  burned  in  the 
Franklin  stove.  The  stove  reminded  him  of  a 
country  railroad-station,  and  he  noticed  that  the 
fireplace  had  been  bricked  up.  Two  beautiful  Irish 
setters  sniffed  at  him  with  hostile  inquiry  and  then 
retreated  under  the  table  at  their  mistress'  sharp 
command.  They  were  evidently  so  unaccustomed 
to  strangers  as  to  be  lacking  in  the  friendliness  of 
their  breed. 

"There's  nothing  you  don't  see,"  his  hostess  re- 
marked, "even  if  you  don't  pretend  to."  She  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  chair  and  put  her  wraps  on  a  sew- 
ing machine  in  the  corner.  "You  fools,"  she  cried 
to  the  dogs,  "shut  up !  Didn't  you  ever  see  any  one 
before?  I  like  dogs,"  she  continued.  "They've 
generally  got  such  good  sense.  But  I'm  tired  of 
people  palavering  around." 

"I  see  you're  fond  of  the  theater,  too,"  he  re- 


84  THE   TORCH 

joined,  indicating  with  a  gesture  a  number  of  litho- 
graphs of  actors  and  actresses  tacked  to  the  walls. 
"There's  nothing  I  like  so  much  myself  as  a  diver- 
sion. It  always  gives  me  a  new  lease  on  life  to  go 
to  a  good  play." 

"You  wasn't  brought  up  that  way,"  she  guessed 
shrewdly. 

"How  could  you  tell?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"How  could  I  tell?  I  just  naturally  knew  it. 
No  more  was  I,  but  a  body  must  do  something. 
What  I  like  about  the  theater  is  the  elbow  room. 
You  pay  your  money  and  don't  have  to  stop  and 
palaver  at  the  door  and  shake  hands  with  people. 
You  don't  have  to  have  any  one  pawing  you  and 
asking  you  to  come  again,  and  it  kind  of  livens  you 
up." 

"Evidently  you  are  contrasting  the  theater  with 
the  church,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 

She  sniffed  again  in  a  way  he  already  recognized 
as  characteristic. 

"Church!  Money,  money,  money;  that's  what 
they  want.  Money  for  little  niggers  in  Africa,  and 
for  dirty,  good-for-nothing  Indians.  And  what  do 
you  get  for  your  pains  ?  Gossip ;  that's  what  you 
get.  Slander;  everybody  poking  his  nose  into 
other  people's  business." 

Babington  was  not  concerned  in  defending  the 
church. 

"I  see  you  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  the 
church,"  she  said,  with  her  wintry  smile.  "I  read 
in  the  papers  of  your  preaching  in  your  own  church 
in  Argos." 


TUPPER'S    WIDOW  85 

He  seized  the  opportunity  to  turn  the  conversa- 
tion back  to  the  university.  He  told  her  of  the 
article  in  the  Catholic  paper,  and  commented  on 
the  injustice  it  had  done  him.  She  was  more  in- 
terested than  he  had  yet  seen  her.  He  guessed  that 
she  would  sympathize  with  his  point  of  view,  but 
he  had  not  divined  the  intensity  of  her  protestant- 
ism. 

"Father  OToole!"  she  flamed  out.  "Tupper's 
first  wife  was  a  Catholic,  and  I  used  to  see  him 
sliding  in  and  out  of  this  house.  Tupper  didn't 
seem  to  care,  the  old  fool." 

She  saw  that  the  implication  of  her  words  made 
him  uncomfortable  and  laughed  harshly. 

"I'm  a  dreadful  old  woman,  and  I  call  a  spade  a 
spade.  You've  got  some  ministers  over  there 
teaching  the  boys,  haven't  you?  I'm  glad  of  it." 
She  chuckled,  as  if  in  some  way  she  had  got  the 
better  of  O'Toole. 

Fortune  seemed  to  be  smiling  on  the  president. 
He  became  confidential.  He  told  her  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  his  position,  of  the  fractious  nature  of 
some  of  his  professors,  of  the  need  of  money  in  all 
departments.  Then  he  drew  a  picture  of  poor  stu- 
dents who  lived  on  a  few  dollars  a  week,  admitting 
much  to  humor  her  prejudices,  but  calling  her  at- 
tention to  the  need  of  instruction  in  such  subjects 
as  he  thought  she  might  respect. 

Most  women  were  moved  by  his  persuasive  man- 
ner and  fine  voice,  and  even  old  Kate  forgot  to  be 
sarcastic.  He  had  never  preached  more  eloquently 
the  gospel  of  the  university.  He  complimented 


86  THE   TORCH 

self-made  men,  but  declared  that  poor  students  were 
also  self-made.  There  was  no  argument  against 
the  university  with  which  he  was  not  familiar,  and 
he  was  a  special  pleader  well  armed.  His  very  con- 
fidence in  her  was  a  compliment.  She  had  been 
heartless  in  the  case  of  her  stepson,  moved  by 
jealousy  and  suspicion,  but  this  was  something  im- 
personal, and  her  sympathy,  long  atrophied,  was 
touched.  Suddenly,  however,  her  eyes  took  on  a 
suspicious  look,  and  she  interrupted  him. 

"You're  like  the  rest  of  them.  You  want  money, 
too,  but  you  won't  get  any  of  it  from  me."  She 
tapped  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and  rocked  rapidly 
back  and  forth.  "Everybody  wants  to  get  money 
out  of  me.  That  good-for-nothing  boy  of  Tupper's 
will  come  back  after  I'm  dead  and  gone  and  spend 
what  his  poor  father  slaved  to  make.  But  I'm  not 
gone  yet.  I'm  mistress  here  yet." 

"I  suppose  the  young  man  is  a  Catholic  ?".  he 
suggested. 

"That's  what  O'Toole  says!"  she  cried.  "But 
he  don't  get  a  cent  of  the  money  for  his  church  if 
I  can  help  it ;  not  a  cent." 

"I  must  be  getting  back  to  Argos,"  he  said,  ris- 
ing. "There's  just  one  thing  I  should  like  to  call 
your  attention  to  before  I  go.  I've  known  of  a  num- 
ber of  public-spirited  people  leaving  their  money,  or 
a  part  of  it,  to  colleges  in  trust.  The  donors  get  the 
whole  interest  of  the  money  as  long  as  they  live,  and 
are  relieved  of  all  care.  In  the  case  of  a  state  univer- 
sity the  interest  is  greater,  because  a  state  institu- 
tion is  freed  from  taxation.  If  you  adopted  some 


TUPPER'S    WIDOW  87 

such  policy  you  could  be  sure  that  the  money  would 
not  be  put  to  unworthy  uses." 

As  he  uttered  these  words  he  felt  a*  slight  twinge 
of  compunction  in  regard  to  the  absent  heir  whose 
claims  he  thus  opposed.  But  had  not  Mr.  Tupper 
himself  planned  to  make  a  bequest  to  the  univer- 
sity? What  right  had  this  ignorant  old  woman  to 
defeat  such  a  beneficent  purpose?  The  thought 
moved  him  to  clinch  the  argument. 

"Your  late  husband's  wishes  would  be  served  as 
well  as  your  own.  He  was  a  self-made  man,  and 
yet  he  must  have  seen  that  a  university  can  do  more 
for  worthy  young  men,  without  spoiling  them,  than 
they  can  do  single-handed  for  themselves." 

He  saw  that  she  was  impressed,  though  she  would 
not  admit  it. 

"Have  something  warm  to  drink  before  you  go," 
she  said.  "It's  getting  colder." 

She  went  to  the  side  of  the  room  and  pulled  a  bell 
rope.  He  heard  a  faint  jingle  in  the  kitchen  and 
pictured  the  spiral  wires  with  little  bells  attached, 
such  as  he  had  known  in  his  boyhood.  It  seemed  a 
strange  anachronism  in  the  days  of  electricity.  A 
woman  appeared  and  Mrs.  Tupper  ordered  hot 
water  and  whiskey. 

"Those  bell  ropes  remind  me  of  the  kind  I  used 
to  see  in  my  grandmother's  house,"  he  remarked. 

"I  wouldn't  have  an  electric  buzzer  in  the  place," 
she  rejoined.  "It  would  make  me  feel  as  if  I  was 
being  electrocuted  every  time  the  thing  went  off." 

When  he  had  drunk  his  toddy  she  accompanied 
him  to  the  window  at  which  he  had  entered.  The 


88  THE   TORCH 

subject  of  the  university  was  not  again  mentioned 
between  them. 

"Come  and  see  me  some  time,"  she  said.  "I'm  a 
lonely  old  woman  and  I  don't  go  out  much  now. 
Most  people  are  such  fools  that  I  don't  want  them 
around,  but  you've  got  some  common  sense." 

He  thanked  her,  laughing  at  the  compliment,  and 
passed  down  the  pathway.  When  he  reached  the 
gate  he  looked  back,  but  she  had  disappeared.  The 
sun  was  sinking  behind  the  house  and  the  shadows 
lengthened  over  the  desolate  scene.  How  like  the 
abode  of  a  witch  or  a  miser  it  seemed !  Old  Kate 
Tupper  was  part  and  parcel  of  her  habitat,  he  mused. 
No  wonder  Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  said  that  she  must 
be  seen  to  be  believed. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   FIGURE  OF   A   DREAM 

Lee  and  Trumbull  stood  in  front  of  the  building 
of  the  Young  Women's  Christian  Association  one 
evening  in  February  and  argued  the  pros  and  cons 
of  entering.  Already  the  reception  was  in  full 
swing  and  they  could  hear  the  college  glee-club 
"rendering  a  selection." 

"Hang  it,  man,"  Trumbull  protested  irritably, 
"why  the  devil  do  you  want  me  to  go  in  there  ?" 

"I  wish  to  win  you  from  the  enticements  of  the 
gentleman  you  have  just  mentioned,"  Lee  returned. 
"I  want  you  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  nobler  side  of 
university  life." 

The  archaeologist  was  moved  to  the  ghost  of  an 
exasperated  laugh. 

"Well,  it's  too  late  to  do  anything  else  now.  I 
did  have  some  work  to  do,  but  I  might  as  well 
waste  my  whole  evening,  now  that  I've  begun.  I'd 
just  as  soon  be  hung  for  an  old  sheep  as  a  lamb." 

"I  don't  quite  see  the  point  of  the  proverb,"  his 
friend  remarked.  "I'm  not  going  to  take  you  in 
that  you  may  be  hung  for  an  old  sheep.  You  are  an 
old  sheep  now.  I'm  going  to  take  you  in  that  you 
may  be  changed  into  a  white  lamb.  I  wish  to  add 
one  to  the  metamorphoses  of  Ovid." 

89 


90  THE   TORCH 

He  took  Trumbull  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  be- 
yond the  earshot  of  passing  students. 

"Have  you  never  found  on  your  desk  a  little 
billet  doux,  a  note  from  the  co-eds,  in  which  you 
were  cordially  invited  to  attend  a  reception  ?  When 
they  are  cordial  ought  you  to  be  unkind  ?" 

"You  want  to  go  in  to  prop  up  your  waning  pop- 
ularity," Trumbull  declared. 

"That's  it,  exactly,"  Lee  assented.  "In  spite  of 
your  mixture  of  metaphors,  you  see  the  point.  You 
might  have  expressed  it  better,  but  it  is  something  to 
have  seen  it.  Now  if  anybody  inquires  after  your 
spiritual  welfare  I  want  you  to  be  polite  about  it." 

He  was  still  chuckling  at  Trumbull's  discomfiture 
when  they  reached  the  door  and  shook  hands  with 
the  reception  committee.  Mrs.  Everett  was  assist- 
ing. 

"On  duty,  I  see,"  he  remarked,  as  they  stood  a 
little  apart  from  the  others. 

"Oh,  I  rather  enjoy  it,"  she  answered  with  a 
smile.  "The  girls  are  very  nice." 

"Of  course  they  are;  that's  what  I  told  Trum- 
bull. He  doesn't  get  many  of  them  in  his  courses, 
and  has  been  pleased  to  adopt  a  scornful  attitude 
toward  them.  You  see  they've  got  hold  of  him 
now.  I  guessed  by  their  greeting  that  they  regarded 
us  both  as  possible  converts." 

He  dragged  his  friend  on  from  room  to  room  and 
introduced  him  to  many  students.  It  seemed  to  the 
unwilling  archaeologist  that  Lee  knew  every  one. 
Their  conversation  with  the  undergraduates  turned 
upon  the  weather,  the  decorations  of  the  room,  the 


THE   FIGURE   OF   A   DREAM         91 

prospect  of  a  good  baseball  team  in  the  spring. 
Trumbull  was  not  a  man  to  conceal  his  boredom, 
and  Lee  enjoyed  the  basilisk  stare  of  his  cold  eyes, 
the  unconscious  brusqueness  of  his  replies  to  inno- 
cent inanities. 

In  all  that  large  crowd  there  was  only  a  handful 
of  teachers ;  some  who  made  such  receptions  a  step- 
ping-stone to  popularity ;  others  who  were  drawn  by 
religious  affiliations.  They  were  not  the  men  Lee 
cared  to  see,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  reach  them. 
He  began  to  wonder  whether  his  elaborate  joke  on 
Trumbull  were  worth  while.  There  was  nothing 
new  for  him  to  study  in  the  psychology  of  under- 
graduate life.  He  knew  it  all :  the  lack  of  piquancy 
and  romance  in  the  relation  of  the  sexes,  the  unim- 
aginative level  on  which  they  met.  He  would  not 
have  had  it  otherwise,  but  it  palled  upon  him. 

"I  don't  wonder,"  he  said  to  Trumbull  as  they 
stood  sipping  lemonade  in  a  corner,  "that  Hymen 
plays  such  a  small  part  in  college  life.  I  remember 
that  when  I  was  an  undergraduate  we  used  to  invite 
girls  from  the  capital  to  our  dances,  and  I  under- 
stand the  men  are  just  as  ungallant  now  as  we 
were." 

"What  would  you  have?"  Trumbull  asked  scorn- 
fully. "A  matrimonial  agency?" 

"I  knew  lemonade  would  make  you  irritable,"  Lee 
rejoined. 

One  of  his  students  came  up  and  gave  him  the 
greeting  of  a  comrade.  As  he  poured  her  a  glass 
of  lemonade  Trumbull  took  the  opportunity  to  slip 
away. 


92  THE   TORCH 

"I  suppose  I'm  going  to  get  a  horribly  low  mark 
in  English,"  she  began. 

"I  hope  not,"  he  answered.  He  would  have  said 
more,  but  he  saw  that  she  had  forgotten  him.  Her 
eyes  were  roving  restlessly  over  the  room. 

"There's  Doctor  Brown!"  she  cried.  "I  wish 
you  would  introduce  me  to  him.  I  want  to  take  his 
course  in  elegiac  poetry  next  half.  They  say  it's  a 
cinch." 

When  Brown  joined  them  Lee's  memory  was  for 
once  at  fault.  He  could  not  recall  the  girl's  name. 

"Merry,"  she  prompted.    "My  name  is  Merry." 

He  remembered  now  that  this  was  the  student 
that  had  signed  her  enrolment  card  E.  Ross  Merry. 
At  first  sight  of  her  bold  signature  he  had  supposed 
it  the  name  of  a  man  and  had  called  upon  Mr.  Merry 
to  recite,  much  to  the  amusement  of  the  class.  How 
could  he  know  that  E.  stood  for  Ethel,  rather  than 
for  Edward? 

Brown  looked  at  him  with  his  malevolent  smile. 
He  did  not  forget  the  names  of  his  students,  and 
Lee's  discomfiture  pleased  him. 

"To  what  happy  accident  do  we  owe  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  here  to-night  ?"  he  demanded. 

"No  accident,  I  assure  you,"  Lee  answered  with 
suavity.  "My  coming  was  premeditated.  I'm  a 
new  candidate  for  a  pair  of  wings." 

The  philologue  flushed  angrily,  and  E.  Ross 
Merry  laughed.  Brown  had  been  caricatured  in  the 
last  Junior  Annual  as  an  angel.  He  felt  it  was  a 
shabby  return  for  his  devotion  to  the  religious  wel- 
fare of  the  students,  but  it  made  him  only  the  more 


THE   FIGURE   OF   A    DREAM         93 

determined  to  do  his  duty.  His  anger  against  Lee 
was  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  he  regarded  his  jest 
as  a  covert  sneer  at  religion. 

Lee  strolled  away  without  waiting  for  a  counter 
shot.  He  had  not  gone  far  when  a  young  man 
stopped  him  and  demanded  the  year  of  his  gradua- 
tion from  college.  He  was  engaged  in  pinning  the 
year  of  each  man's  class  to  his  coat.  The  professor 
mentioned  a  date  ten  years  before,  and  accepted  the 
label. 

"You're  getting  to  be  a  back  number,"  the  student 
remarked  cheerfully. 

"I'm  afraid  I  am,"  Lee  replied,  "but  I  think  it 
unkind  of  you  to  expose  the  fact.  If  any  one  adds 
ten  years  to  the  average  age  of  graduation  he  can 
arrive  at  an  approximate  estimate  of  the  length  of 
my  earthly  pilgrimage.  If  there  are  any  women 
graduates  here  of  some  years'  standing  I  advise  you 
to  steer  clear  of  them  with  your  obnoxious  labels." 

"That's  no  pipe  dream,  either,"  the  student  re- 
plied, grinning.  "Much  obliged  for  the  advice,  Pro- 
fessor." 

Lee's  good  spirits  had  somehow  ebbed,  and  he  be- 
came depressed.  He  was  suddenly  weary  of  the  stu- 
dents that  came  and  went  year  by  year  in  great 
batches.  Their  numbers  made  individual  attention 
impossible,  and  he  knew  that  he  reached  only  a  few. 
There  were  times  when  the  performances  of  the  en- 
lightened gave  him  a  satisfaction  that  compensated 
for  the  failures  of  the  dullards,  but  to-night  the  un- 
dergraduate body  seemed  to  him  a  great,  crude,  fluc- 
tuating mass,  without  culture  or  congruity. 


94  THE   TORCH 

He  was  attracted  by  the  sound  of  Fyffe's  voice 
from  the  main  room  and  joined  the  crowd  that 
drifted  toward  the  center  of  attraction.  The  little 
professor  was  in  the  full  tide  of  one  of  his  popular 
harangues.  His  theme  was  football,  and  he  han- 
dled it  in  a  jocund  maner  that  brought  shouts  of 
laughter  and  applause  from  his  listeners.  He  ap- 
pealed to  their  patriotism  by  cracking  many  a  sly 
joke  upon  Washington  University.  His  head  was 
thrown  back,  the  large  vein  in  his  forehead  came  and 
went,  his  voice,  so  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  stat- 
ure, filled  the  room  to  the  end  and  echoed  through 
the  hall  beyond.  He  seemed  almost  a  pet  of  the 
strapping  young  men  and  women  about  him,  and  no 
one  enjoyed  his  witticisms  more  than  he  did  him- 
self. 

Lee  laughed  with  the  rest,  for  Fyffe  was  irresist- 
ible. A  few  moments  before  he  had  been  filled  with 
vague  self-dissatisfaction,  for  he  felt  that  his  want 
of  sympathy  with  all  sides  of  undergraduate  life 
might  be  due  to  a  lack  in  himself.  He  was  too 
sound  at  the  core  to  be  ignorant  of  the  weakness  of 
cynicism,  and  was  not  proud  of  the  discerning  imp 
within  him.  As  he  saw  Fyffe  thus  disporting  him- 
self for  a  brief  applause  he  was  thankful  that  he 
himself  had  never  played  the  role  of  public  enter- 
tainer. There  was  just  a  suggestion  of  the  variety 
show  in  the  performance,  just  a  hint  of  patronage  in 
the  applauders.  He  saw  President  Babington  stand- 
ing in  the  crowd,  smiling  his  approval,  like  a 
minister,  Lee  thought,  watching  his  Sunday-school 
superintendent  amuse  the  children. 


THE    FIGURE    OF    A    DREAM         95 

The  crowd  pressed  about  him.  Gradually  he  be- 
came conscious  of  a  delicate  warmth  that  pervaded 
him  with  a  sense  of  restfulness  and  comfort,  and, 
looking  down,  he  saw  the  girl  he  had  noticed  at 
Mrs.  Van  Sant's  standing  close  at  his  side.  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  had  told  him  who  she  was,  a  poor  student 
working  her  way  through  college,  whom  she  had  em- 
ployed that  evening  in  an  emergency.  Lee  had  pre- 
tended to  doubt  her  contention  that  Miss  Hathaway 
was  a  lady,  but  he  felt  now  that  she  was.  He  was 
ashamed  of  the  wanton  impulse  that  made  him  seek 
her  eyes  for  just  one  moment.  She  appeared  un- 
conscious of  his  consciousness  ot  her  presence, 
though  he  knew  instinctively  that  she  was  not. 

Something  in  her  exquisite  beauty,  in  her  delicacy, 
put  his  first  impulse  to  the  blush.  He  was  glad  to 
stand  very  near  her,  to  note  the  curve  of  her  cheek, 
the  undulating  mass  of  dark  hair  gathered  in  a  coil 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  the  quiver  of  her  long  lashes. 
The  poet  within  him  was  always  stirred  by  beauty. 
The  very  fineness  of  his  sensibilities  made  him  re- 
sent any  lack  of  loveliness  in  women.  Now  his 
mood  was  tinged  with  romance.  Her  pressure 
against  him  was  sweet  to  his  senses.  Vagrant  fan- 
cies, illusive  impulses,  stirred  within  him.  He  had 
a  flitting  glimpse  of  an  earlier  self,  a  self  in  which 
there  was  more  of  the  witchery  of  dawn  and  twi- 
light, more  knowledge  of  the  wonder  of  springtime 
and  of  love. 

It  was  a  curious  rejuvenescence  which  this  girl 
wrought  within  him,  he  reflected;  and  yet  why 
should  he  ever  lose  the  sense  of  adventure  and  won- 


96  THE   TORCH 

der  that  once  made  life  a  series  of  vivid  impressions, 
of  alluring  possibilities?  As  he  looked  down  that 
vanishing  vista  a  feeling  of  sadness  stole  over  him. 
He  no  longer  heard  the  speaker  or  the  loud  laughter 
of  the  bystanders.  For  him  there  was  just  one  per- 
son in  that  room,  nestled  now  against  his  side,  soon 
to  be  separated  from  him,  perhaps  forever.  Just  so 
he  had  seen  a  lovely  face  in  the  car,  in  the  crowded 
theater,  fit  subject  for  a  moment's  dream.  Just  so 
he  had  often  stood  beside  one  he  might  have  loved, 
and  had  never  seen  her  again. 

When  the  speech  was  over  and  the  crowd  drifted 
apart  he  made  no  effort  to  find  Trumbull.  He 
wished  to  be  alone  and  think.  The  girl  had  left  him 
quickly,  almost  as  if  she  feared  he  might  speak  to 
her  or  find  an  opportunity  of  making  her  acquaint- 
ance. He  accepted  her  impulse  with  a  resignation 
born  of  his  present  mood.  Her  instinct  was  right. 
The  dormant  cynicism  of  his  nature  awoke,  colored 
by  wistfulness.  He  felt  that  there  was  nothing  per- 
sonal in  his  emotions,  that  her  very  beauty  made 
them  impersonal.  Beauty  of  the  highest  type  was 
inaccessible,  a  minister  to  the  divine  discontent  that 
keeps  the  soul  alive.  Always  through  life  it  would 
be  the  same.  Some  passing  face,  some  evanescent 
smile,  would  stir  within  him  the  longing  for  posses- 
sion. It  was  not  love ;  it  was  the  love  of  love. 

As  he  walked  homeward  he  wondered  at  the  va- 
grancy of  men's  fancies.  He  knew  that  his  love  for 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  personal  and  abiding.  Was 
this  experience  disloyalty  to  her?  He  pondered 
long,  but  the  question  found  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   BOW   OF   MAGENTA   RIBBON 

One  morning  in  May  the  people  of  Argos  were 
amazed  to  read  in  The  Times  that  Mrs.  Tupper  had 
given  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  the  univer- 
sity in  trust,  the  whole  sum  to  go  to  the  institution 
at  her  death.  Though  the  president's  visits  were  not 
unknown,  very  few  had  believed  that  he  could  work 
this  miracle.  It  was  generally  supposed  to  be  easier 
to  wring  water  from  a  stone  than  money  from  Mrs. 
Tupper ;  but  there  it  was  in  cold  print,  and  even  The 
Times  would  scarcely  dare  publish  such  a  piece  of 
news  without  authority. 

There  was  a  widespread  feeling  of  elation  among 
the  university  supporters,  which  was  but  little  damp- 
ened by  the  reminder  of  the  more  cynical  that  there 
was  a  string  tied  to  the  gift,  and  that  old  Kate  was 
good  for  ten  or  twenty  years  more  of  life. 

To  the  younger  generation  the  name  of  Tupper 
was  almost  legendary,  if  they  knew  it  at  all,  so  rap- 
idly does  the  whirligig  of  time  bring  new  names  to 
the  front  and  bury  in  oblivion  the  deeds  of  the 
pioneers.  Now  people  began  to  inquire  old  Kate's 
age  and  to  speculate  on  her  chances  of  becoming 
a  centenarian.  Some  were  wicked  enough  to  re- 

97 


98  THE   TORCH 

mark  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  she  should  die 
forthwith,  but  others  hoped  she  would  postpone  the 
event  until  she  had  made  over  the  rest  of  her  great 
fortune  to  the  university.  After  all,  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  was  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket  com- 
pared with  the  millions  she  was  known  to  possess. 
What  could  she  do  with  so  much  money  ?  She  had 
given  little  enough. 

Out  of  all  this  buzz  of  comment  only  a  paean  of 
praises  reached  the  lonely  old  woman  as  she  sat 
reading  the  papers  in  her  sunny  sitting-room,  and 
though  she  had  long  considered  herself  impervious 
to  blarney,  she  sniffed  gratefully  the  sweet-smelling 
savor  of  adulation. 

To  President  Babington  the  triumph  of  his  efforts 
was  almost  as  unexpected  as  to  the  world  at  large, 
for  her  letter  had  come  after  an  unusually  trying  in- 
terview from  which  he  had  departed  in  despair. 
There  was  a  touch  of  the  eternal  feminine  in  the  sud- 
denness of  her  repentance.  It  was  an  appeal  to  her 
pride  and  to  her  hope  of  immortal  memory  among 
men  that  had  won  the  day,  though  when  he  sug- 
gested that  she  provide  a  "Kate  Tupper  Founda- 
tion," the  thought  of  death  which  the  terms  of  the 
gift  implied  caused  her  to  berate  him  soundly. 

When  he  called  to  thank  her  for  the  gift  her 
greeting  was  almost  shy.  He  noted  with  astonish- 
ment that  she  had  inserted  a  bow  of  magenta  col- 
ored ribbon  in  her  hair  and  felt  with  a  curious  mis- 
giving that  the  adornment  was  meant  for  him.  She 
seated  herself  by  the  open  window  and  rocked  rap- 
idly back  and  forth  while  she  listened  to  his  expres- 


A   BOW   OF   MAGENTA    RIBBON      99 

sions  of  gratification.  The  whole  outside  world  was 
teeming  with  the  rejuvenescence  of  springtime,  and 
Mrs.  Tupper  also  had  taken  a  new  lease  on  life.  If 
those  who  had  wished  her  early  demise  could  have 
seen  the  vitality  of  her  shrewd  eyes  and  the  unusual 
color  in  her  face  they  would  have  been  compelled  to 
abandon  their  charitable  hope. 

"The  young  women  of  the  university  are  planning 
to  give  you  a  reception  in  the  gymnasium,"  the 
president  said.  "The  friends  of  the  university  are 
all  eager  to  shake  hands  with  their  fairy  god- 
mother." 

"I  guess  some  of  your  young  scamps  have  burned 
my  carriage,"  she  rejoined,  ignoring  for  the  time 
his  suggestion.  "They  set  fire  to  it  last  night.  I 
don't  mind,  though.  I  put  it  out  there  in  the  first 
place  so  that  Tupper's  brat  couldn't  ride  in  it  after 
I'm  gone." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  patch 
of  ashes  on  the  grass,  which  was  all  that  remained 
of  the  much-enduring  vehicle. 

"Perhaps  it  was  a  case  of  spontaneous  combus- 
tion," he  said  with  a  laugh.  "I  don't  think  any  of 
my  boys  could  be  so  ungrateful." 

He  wisely  refrained  from  returning  to  the  subject 
of  the  reception  until  she  had  become  accustomed  to 
the  idea. 

"I  see  you've  been  housecleaning,"  he  remarked, 
as  he  resumed  his  chair.  For  the  first  time  since  his 
acquaintance  with  her  began  he  had  walked  through 
the  front  door.  Workmen  were  repairing  the  shut- 
ters of  the  windows  and  the  rents  in  the  floor  of  the 


ioo  THE   TORCH 

veranda.  The  old  fence  had  been  cleared  away,  pre- 
paratory to  a  new  one.  From  the  parlor  came  the 
sound  of  a  thumping  on  the  keys  of  the  grand  piano, 
where  the  tuner  was  at  work.  None  of  these  things 
was  lost  upon  the  president. 

"It's  about  time  something  was  done,"  she  an- 
swered with  a  touch  of  confusion.  "You  ain't  never 
seen  the  house,  I  guess.  I'd  like  to  show  it  to  you." 

He  followed  her  into  the  parlor  whose  walls  he 
now  saw  clearly,  for  the  shutters  were  thrown  wide. 

"That's  Tupper,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  portrait. 

Babington  looked  at  the  portrait,  and  guessed 
that  either  the  millionaire  had  let  the  contract  to 
the  lowest  bidder,  or  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
find  an  artist  of  ability  in  the  state.  Even  a  cursory 
glance  showed  him  the  faults  of  drawing  and  color, 
but,  despite  these  defects,  the  force  and  vulgarity  of 
the  subject  were  graphically  depicted.  The  type 
was  unmistakable.  The  eyes  were  cold  and  hard, 
the  smooth-shaven  upper  lip  relentless.  The  fringe 
of  beard  suggested  a  prosperous  farmer  or  rural 
deacon.  He  noted  every  detail,  down  to  the  massive 
gold  watch-chain  and  pendent  charm.  The  million- 
aire was  represented  sitting  in  a  plush  chair,  with 
one  hand  resting  on  the  tasseled  arm,  while  the  fin- 
gers of  the  other  held  a  newspaper.  By  his  side 
stood  the  figure  of  a  little  boy,  but  the  face  was  a 
blank. 

"I  see  the  artist  didn't  finish  his  work,"  Babing- 
ton remarked. 

"Yes,  he  did,  though,"  she  answered,  "but  I  had 
that  brat's  face  painted  out." 


A   BOW   OF   MAGENTA    RIBBON    101 

"Mr.  Tupper  must  have  been  a  strong  character," 
he  commented. 

"He  was  a  smart  one,"  she  assented.  "  'Kate/  he 
used  to  say  to  me,  'no  one  could  track  me  by  the  pen- 
nies I've  dropped.'  And  no  more  they  could." 

She  led  him  from  room  to  room  and  related  many 
anecdotes  of  the  place.  She  showed  him  the  win- 
dow through  which  some  enemy  had  sent  a  bullet 
that  narrowly  missed  the  millionaire  as  he  sat  at 
dinner.  If  there  was  any  detail  concerning  the  first 
Mrs.  Tupper  and  the  "brats"  which  she  had  not  con- 
fided to  him  he  heard  it  before  his  departure.  Yet 
she  seemed  less  vindictive  than  usual.  There  was 
something  of  the  softened  mood  of  reminiscence  in 
her  talk,  as  if  the  harsh  outlines  of  her  wrongs  were 
blurred  by  distance. 

As  they  stood  on  the  veranda  she  returned  unex- 
pectedly to  her  suspicions  of  the  president's  motives. 

"There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,"  she  snapped, 
in  a  kind  of  panic.  "Now  that  I've  begun  to  throw 
my  money  away  I  suppose  I  won't  stop  till  I'm  a 
beggar." 

"But  you  only  gave  it  in  trust,"  he  said  sooth- 
ingly, "and  the  interest  is  yours  as  long  as  you 
need  it." 

The  next  moment  he  wondered  at  his  stupidity 
in  repeating  this  mistake.  It  was  one  thing  for  her 
to  speak  of  herself  as  old  and  to  refer  to  the  time 
when  she  should  be  "gone" ;  but  it  was  quite  an- 
other thing  in  him.  She  broke  into  a  nervous  fury. 

"As  long  as  I  need  it !  I  suppose  you  hope  I'll 
die  soon,  so  that  you  can  have  it  all."  He  raised  his 


102  THE   TORCH 

hand  and  tried  to  protest,  but  she  continued :  "I 
don't  know  what's  got  into  me.  This  old  house  was 
good  enough  before,  but  I've  gone  and  put  a  lot  of 
money  into  useless  repairs,  and  they're  robbing  me 
every  minute.  What  did  you  come  here  for  and 
put  such  high-falutin'  notions  in  my  head?  I  sup- 
pose I've  got  to  get  a  lot  of  other  things  now  if  I'm 
going  to  begin  going  to  parties.  I'll  have  to  get  a 
new  carriage  and  horses  and  a  man — " 

"I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  call  for  you  in  my 
own  carriage  for  this  particular  reception,"  he  in- 
terposed. 

She  melted  immediately,  with  one  of  her  rapid 
changes  of  emotion  which  he  had  come  to  expect. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "thank  you.  You're  very 
kind."  She  flushed  with  pleasure  and  stood  nod- 
ding and  smiling  from  the  steps  as  he  mounted  his 
horse ;  a  pathetic  and  laughable  figure,  with  the  bow 
of  magenta  ribbon  awry  upon  her  wintry  head. 


CHAPTER    IX 

A   FREE   TONGUE 

Perhaps  in  no  place  was  criticism  more  free  and 
less  fatal  than  at  Argos.  Of  the  two  hundred  men 
that  constituted  the  teaching  force  of  the  university 
there  was  scarcely  one  against  whom  serious  charges 
were  not  made  at  one  time  or  another,  charges 
which,  if  true,  ought  to  have  caused  his  dismissal. 

The  report  of  Fyffe's  drinking,  for  example,  was 
widespread.  He  had  been  seen  coming  from  "the 
captain's,"  a  candy  and  tobacco  shop  near  the  uni- 
versity, where  liquor  was  sold  secretly  in  defiance 
of  the  law.  Many  doubted  the  truth  of  the  story, 
but  there  was  none  that  had  not  heard  it.  Even 
the  papers  made  reference  to  the  alcoholic  excesses 
of  "a  certain  eminent  scientist  connected  with  the 
State  University,"  but  references  of  this  kind  did 
not  seem  to  injure  his  position  in  the  least.  His 
courses  were  always  crowded;  he  spoke  in  public 
with  applause ;  in  short,  his  qualities  were  such  that 
he  carried  easily  a  load  of  opprobrium  that  would 
have  crushed  a  man  less  able. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  prevalence  of  criticism, 
and  the  resulting  confusion  between  the  true  and 
false,  helped  the  guilty  to  escape  while  it  injured  the 

103 


104  THE   TORCH 

innocent.  Professor  Everett  was  called  stupid  and 
slow ;  Plow  consorted  with  anarchists ;  Brown  was  a 
canting  hypocrite;  Lee  made  love  to  the  co-eds; 
Trumbull  lived  in  the  capital,  that  he  might  put  a 
quart  of  claret  under  his  vest  every  night  at  a 
French  dinner;  Stuart  was  cruel  to  his  wife,  hated 
the  United  States,  and  was  much  given  to  self-ad-, 
vertisement.  Every  one  knew  what  professor  ty- 
rannized over  his  subordinates,  what  subordinates 
feared  their  professor,  what  men  were  rivals  for 
promotion,  and  what  they  said  of  each  other. 

Naturally  enough,  the  president  received  the  at- 
tention his  position  demanded,  though  people  were 
usually  careful  to  whom  they  confided  their  opin- 
ion, and  no  one  dared  to  speak  disparagingly  of  him 
to  Fyffe.  His  enemies  said  that  he  was  a  snob,  a 
tailor-made  man,  and  a  hypocrite.  His  pictures 
were  seen  in  all  the  principal  photographers'  win- 
dows in  the  capital,  and  the  irreverent  made  com- 
ments upon  his  vanity  as  they  saw  him  staring 
roundly  at  them  from  the  card,  clad  in  all  the  im- 
posing insignia  of  his  office.  Many  put  a  sinister 
interpretation  on  his  success  in  obtaining  Mrs. 
Tupper's  gift.  They  said  that  he  was  earning  his 
salary,  and  doing  just  exactly  what  a  showy  and 
plausible  man  could  do  better  than  a  scholar  and  a 
gentleman.  Every  one  knew  that  he  and  Plow  and 
Lee  were  in  love  with  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  and  that  the 
president  was  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  dis- 
miss his  more  formidable  rival  on  the  ground  of  his 
anarchistic  sympathies.  Many  remarked  that  he 


A   FREE   TONGUE  105 

underrated  Lee's  chances,  and  prophesied  that  the 
professor  of  English  would  yet  win  the  prize. 

To  a  new  arrival  in  Argos  all  this  seething  cal- 
dron of  gossip  was  appalling,  but  as  time  went  on  he 
began  to  estimate  it  at  its  true  worth.  He  even  be- 
gan to  take  part,  and  knew  that  he  was  not  injuring 
any  one  seriously.  Finally  he  saw  that  it  was  all 
an  expression  of  the  western  freedom  of  speech  and 
sense  of  humor.  No  one  really  believed  the  stories, 
but  they  made  spicy  subjects  for  conversation.  Al- 
most all  the  men  thus  attacked  were  respected,  and 
some  were  loved.  Beneath  that  keen  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  there  was  a  solid  foundation  of  earnest- 
ness and  probity,  and  a  real  appreciation  of  the  newv 
president's  merits. 

The  evening  before  the  reception  that  was  to 
be  given  to  Mrs.  Tupper  the  president  met  Pro- 
fessor Fyffe  as  he  left  his  office.  The  confidences 
between  the  two  men  in  regard  to  Plow  had  passed 
the  stage  of  suggestion  and  innuendo.  As  they 
made  their  way  across  the  campus  Fyffe  introduced 
the  subject  himself. 

"Plow  was  holding  forth  at  the  table  in  the  res- 
taurant again  yesterday,"  he  began. 

"Unionism?"  Babington  queried,  with  something 
like  a  sneer. 

"Of  a  new  kind,"  Fyffe  continued.  "He  recom- 
mends a  union  of  poor  teachers  to  enforce  living 
wages." 

The  president  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"By  heavens,  this  is  going  a  step  too  far !  In  all 
decency  he  ought  to  see  that  there  is  a  limit." 


io6  THE   TORCH 

"Apparently  he  doesn't,"  the  professor  rejoined. 
"Of  course  he  spoke  in  general  terms,  and  didn't 
mention  names.  Most  of  the  men  at  the  table  were 
instructors,  and  they  were  talking  as  usual  about 
their  wrongs." 

"Yes,"  said  Babington.  "Here's  a  bench.  Tell 
me  about  it." 

They  seated  themselves  and  Fyffe  went  on,  dig- 
ging up  the  young  grass  with  his  cane. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  about  the  young 
fellows.  It's  natural  for  them  to  growl ;  but  Plow 
gets  three  thousand  a  year,  and  he  ought  to  be  sat- 
isfied. He's  a  bachelor,  too." 

"It  isn't  for  himself  he  burns,"  said  Babington, 
with  bitter  sarcasm.  "His  great  heart  beats  for  the 
poor  working  man.  But  what  were  the  points  of 
the  indictment?" 

"There  were  a  good  many.  First  he  echoed  Stu- 
art's well-known  sentiments  and  criticized  Ameri- 
can universities  for  being  social  clubs  instead  of 
seminaries  of  research — too  many  receptions  and 
too  much  show.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  fact  that  the 
president  of  an  American  university  is  an  absolute 
despot,  that  he  has  more  power  than  the  head  of  any 
European  university.  He  said  it  was  a  curious 
anomaly  in  a  republic,  and  all  of  a  piece  with  the  in- 
dustrial tyranny  of  the  times.  And  he  wound  up 
by  speaking  of  salaries.  He  said  they  were  in  most 
cases  utterly  inadequate  and  that  we  couldn't  ex- 
pect any  productive  scholarship  from  young  men 
who  were  so  poor  that  they  had  to  help  their  wives 
do  housework." 


A   FREE   TONGUE  107 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  the  president  asked. 

"I?  Oh,  not  much.  I  thought  it  a  pity  to  in- 
terrupt his  oration.  He  went  on  to  say  that  he 
didn't  place  the  responsibility  for  these  conditions 
on  any  one  man — " 

"Very  considerate  of  my  feelings,"  Babington  in- 
terposed. 

— "but  that  the  results  were  beginning  to  be  ap- 
parent." 

"And  what  were  they?" 

"The  great  power  of  the  president  of  an  Ameri- 
can university  made  the  teachers  feel  insecure. 
They  kept  their  eyes  open  for  better  places,  for  they 
were  usually  on  bad  terms  with  the  president  and 
held  him  responsible  for  their  condition.  Then  he 
harked  back  to  the  subject  of  salaries.  He  declared 
that  a  spirit  of  social  emulation  had  crept  into  the 
university  within  his  memory,  and  that  this  was  due 
to  great  donations  by  private  persons,  and  to  the  in- 
fluence of  rich  outsiders  that  had  come  to  live  in 
Argos.  The  instructors  were  obliged  to  do  all  sorts 
of  things  to  get  their  wives  proper  dresses  for  swell 
receptions.  Some  did  private  tutoring,  and  thus 
laid  themselves  open  to  the  charge  of  bribery  by 
students  that  had  failed  to  pass.  Others  wrote 
twaddle  for  the  newspapers;  others  lectured;  some 
wrote  elementary  text-books,  or  novels.  Every 
spare  moment  was  put  into  the  effort  to  get  more 
money  instead  of  into  a  specialty.  He  ended  with 
the  deepest  minor  chord  of  all,  the  sentiment  being 
that  money  now  has  more  influence  than  merit." 

There  followed  a  moment  of  silence. 


io8  THE   TORCH 

"And  I  forgot,"  Fyffe  added,  laughing.  "He 
said  the  instructors  were  too  poor  to  be  able  to  af- 
ford the  luxury  of  having  children." 

"Then  why  in  heaven's  name  haven't  they  sense 
enough  to  remain  single?"  Babington  fumed.  "It 
isn't  my  fault  if  the  legislature  won't  appropriate 
sufficient  money  to  pay  them  what  they  want.  I'm 
having  a  hard  time  as  it  is  getting  them  to  give  me 
a  house  fit  to  live  in.  The  instructors  ougtyt  to 
reckon  the  honor  of  the  position  as  something.  I 
did.  I  began  on  nine  hundred  a  year,  but  I  stood  to 
my  guns  and  had  the  good  sense  not  to  burden  my- 
self with  a  wife.  I  don't  claim  that  conditions  are 
perfect,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  Plow's  insinuations 
are  treacherous,  to  put  it  mildly." 

"His  reference  to  donations  by  private  persons 
looked  that  way,"  the  other  admitted,  "especially 
just  after  Mrs.  Tupper's  gift.  But  I  must  say  I 
don't  think  he  meant  it  personally.  We  mustn't  ex- 
pect good  balance  in  a  reformer.  His  mind  has 
been  running  on  labor  problems  so  long  that  he  has 
become  a  crank." 

"He's  been  at  it  again,  too,"  said  Babington,  ris- 
ing with  a  sigh.  "I  had  hoped  he  would  subside, 
but  his  last  speech  was  the  worst  yet.  I've  got  to 
get  rid  of  him  sooner  or  later,  but  how  ?  He  has  a 
strong  following." 

"Just  give  him  a  little  more  time,"  Fyffe  sug- 
gested. "Give  him  a  little  more  rope,  and  he'll 
hang  himself  before  long." 

The  professor  was  more  unhappy  than  the  presi- 
dent himself  when  he  finally  went  slowly  homeward 


A   FREE   TONGUE  109 

alone.  By  imperceptible  degrees  he  had  become  a 
judge  of  the  man  whose  popularity  with  the  stu- 
dents rivalled  his  own,  whose  greater  self-respect 
challenged  his  own  confident  bearing  before  the 
world.  His  hatred  of  that  jovial  plebeian  who  met 
his  scorn  with  such  indifference  defied  his  better 
nature,  and  a  bitter  perversity  hardened  his  heart 
toward  the  man  he  had  wronged. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER 

As  Lee  entered  the  campus  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  reception  to  Mrs.  Tupper,  he  saw  Brown  coming 
down  the  path,  and  knew  that  they  must  meet. 
The  whole  world  was  bathed  in  the  misty,  balmy 
atmosphere  of  springtime;  the  sparrows  were 
wrangling  joyfully ;  the  freshly  cut  grass  loaded  the 
breeze  with  a  sweet,  moist  fragrance;  a  long  pro- 
cession of  white  clouds  sailed  slowly  and  majestic- 
ally past  the  tower  of  the  library.  At  sight  of 
Brown,  Lee's  mood  of  enjoyment  vanished.  The 
man  seemed  to  shadow  the  bright  landscape  as  he 
moved  nearer,  and  his  approach  was  like  a  breath 
of  chilling  air. 

"You're  bound  in  the  wrong  direction,"  he  re- 
marked pleasantly.  "Aren't  you  going  to  the  re- 
ception ?" 

Brown  came  to  a  halt  before  him  and  barred  the 
way. 

"The  reception,"  he  sneered.  "What  have  I 
to  do  with  the  reception?  That's  the  way  my  road 
lies,  out,  out!"  He  motioned  wildly  toward  the 
great  world  that  lay  beyond  the  university.  Lee  al- 
most quailed  before  that  fierce  gesture.  He  noted 

no 


THE    FAIRY    GODMOTHER          in 

the  lines  of  mental  suffering  on  the  instructor's  face 
and  he  felt  that  it  would  be  useless  to  pretend  ig- 
norance of  the  cause.  On  the  previous  night  the 
board  of  regents  had  added  three  hundred  dollars 
to  his  own  salary  for  the  coming  year,  but  Brown's 
had  been  left  as  before. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  Brown,"  he  said.  "You'll 
get  your  deserts  yet." 

"In  heaven,  I  suppose,"  the  other  answered,  with 
increasing  bitterness,  "but  not  here.  And  Everett 
couldn't  do  a  thing  for  me,  because  he's  neither  rich 
nor  a  regent.  How  mighty  is  the  power  of  the  pull ! 
You  and  Fyffe,  and  no  one  else.  What  have  you 
done  to  deserve  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Lee,  calmly. 

"But  I  have!  I've  really  done  something  to  de- 
serve it,  and  yet,  just  because  I  haven't  got  a  regent 
behind  me,  as  you  have,  my  work  goes  for  nothing." 

"Exactly,"  Lee  returned.  "That's  the  way  of  the 
world.  I  didn't  deserve  an  increase  of  salary  as 
much  as  you  did,  and  yet  I  got  it  because  my  father 
and  Judge  Gates  were  old  friends  when  my  father 
was  alive.  You  probably  won't  believe  me  when  I 
say  that  I  didn't  ask  the  judge  to  use  his  influence 
for  me,  and  that  I  think  you  have  been  treated 
badly,  but  such  is  the  fact.  Babington  has  no  love 
for  me,  and  no  dislike  of  you.  He  doesn't  care  a 
twopence  for  either  of  us,  but  he  wants  the  support 
of  Judge  Gates,  and  he  thinks  he  can  afford  to  ig- 
nore Everett's  request  for  you." 

He  stated  the  case  calmly  and  impersonally,  but 
in  reality  he  was  deeply  moved.  He  wished  now 


ii2  THE   TORCH 

that  he  had  never  sharpened  his  wit  on  this  em- 
bittered man.  The  case  was  so  much  more  compli- 
cated than  Brown  supposed  that  he  was  stirred  to 
pity  for  his  blindness.  The  philologue  had  staked 
all  his  hope  on  scholarship  and  lost.  He  did  not 
know  the  three  cardinal  requirements  of  a  univer- 
sity teacher :  scholarship,  the  ability  to  teach,  and 
breeding.  Few  possessed  all  these  requisites,  but 
success  was  possible  with  any  two  of  them.  Brown 
possessed  only  the  first,  and  he  was  incapable  of 
understanding  his  lack.  He  was  not  at  all  mollified 
by  Lee's  frank  admissions.  At  best  he  was  not  an 
attractive  figure,  but  now  his  expression  of  hatred 
and  sardonic  humor  made  him  repulsive. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  didn't  speak  to  Gates!"  he 
cried  with  contempt,  and  almost  thrust  his  rival 
from  the  path  as  he  moved  on. 

Lee  turned  and  looked  after  him,  his  face  crimson 
with  resentment.  Brown  had  practically  given  him 
the  lie,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  call  him  back,  for  he 
felt  that  he  was  scarcely  accountable.  There  was  a 
man,  he  reflected,  that  would  do  him  a  hurt  if  he 
could.  More  than  once  he  had  violated  the  unwrit- 
ten law  of  professional  courtesy  by  criticizing  his 
rival's  character  and  scholarship  before  the  students. 
Brown  was  a  teetotaler  and  detested  tobacco.  Lee 
had  heard  him  refer  to  smoking  as  a  crime,  and  he 
was  wont  to  declare  that  this  habit  was  the  first 
step  in  a  downward  career.  When  they  took  their 
higher  degrees  together  at  the  eastern  university 
where  they  had  first  met,  Lee  gave  a  punch  party  to 
celebrate  the  event,  but  Brown  declined  to  attend 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER          113 

what  he  called  an  orgy.  He  even  refused  to  eat 
frozen  pudding  at  the  dining  association's  table 
when  he  discovered  that  the  flavor  he  liked  so  much 
was  due  to  a  dash  of  rum.  This  was  a  real  depri- 
vation to  him,  but  he  endured  it  that  he  might  not 
encourage  the  liquor  traffic. 

Inexplicable  as  this  attitude  of  mind  was  to  Lee, 
it  indicated  the  one  trait  in  Brown's  character  that 
he  admired.  The  man  had  within  him  the  stuff  of 
which  martyrs  are  made.  Had  he  lived  in  the  time 
of  the  Christian  persecutions  he  would  have  gone  to 
the  cross  for  his  faith,  and  Lee  felt  guiltily  that  he 
himself,  under  like  circumstances,  would  have 
thought  the  new  religion  plebeian  and  would  have 
preferred  Plato  and  Marcus  Aurelius  to  the  Vulgate. 
He  remembered  the  time,  years  ago  in  the  east, 
when  Brown  had  dragged  him  into  a  sailors'  mis- 
sion to  play  the  little  organ.  He  recalled  Brown's 
prayer,  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  brow,  his 
wrath  when  the  organist  distributed  tobacco  among 
the  puzzled  old  wrecks  that  had  sought  the  shelter 
of  the  warm  room. 

He  continued  his  way  toward  the  gymnasium, 
sick  at  heart.  In  one  comprehensive  vision  he  saw 
all  the  scheming  and  jealousy  of  the  university. 
Personally,  he  had  never  known  the  torment  of  the 
most  malignant  of  human  passions,  and  its  exhibi- 
tion in  others  had  stirred  him  to  amusement.  Now 
the  pitifulness  of  Brown's  case  touched  his  heart. 
He  would  willingly  have  given  the  money  if  he 
could,  and  he  resolved  to  speak  to  Judge  Gates  about 
him  before  the  time  for  promotions  came  again. 


ii4  THE   TORCH 

Preferment  had  always  come  easily  to  Lee.  He 
was  a  sound  scholar,  and  those  that  had  the  power 
of  appointment  knew  it,  but  his  social  gifts  diverted 
the  attention  of  the  many  from  his  more  solid  ac- 
quirements. The  world's  reluctance  to  admit  more 
than  one  excellence  in  the  same  man  was  exemplified 
in  his  case.  Men  like  Brown,  jealous  of  the  sparkle 
and  grace  of  his  lectures,  said  that  his  large  classes 
were  due  to  a  certain  superficial  cleverness.  He 
stood  up  before  the  undergraduates  and  discussed 
his  subject  in  the  same  easy,  daring  manner  that 
stamped  him  in  the  drawing-room,  but  the  more  ap- 
preciative students  derived  an  intellectual  satisfac- 
tion from  his  presentation  that  was  quite  independ- 
ent of  the  ripple  on  the  surface.  He  was  quite 
scornful  of  the  fact  that  most  of  his  hearers  were 
women.  The  men  were  prone  to  elect  the  scientific 
courses,  and  he  missed  the  inspiration  of  their  in- 
dependent attitude  toward  a  teacher. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  just  stepping  from  her  car- 
riage as  he  came  up  to  the  door,  and  they  entered 
the  hall  together. 

"Let  me  congratulate  you,"  she  said.  "I  read  the 
report  of  the  regents'  meeting  in  the  paper." 

In  a  few  words  he  told  her  of  his  conversation 
with  Brown,  and  she  divined  his  depression. 

"Don't  make  yourself  unhappy  because  some  one 
else  hasn't  got  his  deserts  and  you  have,"  she  re- 
marked lightly.  "It  isn't  your  fault." 

He  was  struck  with  her  unusual  lack  of  sympa- 
thy, and  wondered  whether  it  were  due  to  his  im- 


THE   FAIRY    GODMOTHER          115 

plied  reflection  on  the  president.  A  pang  of  some- 
thing like  jealousy  went  through  him.  He  thought 
he  had  never  seen  her  look  more  attractive.  There 
was  a  subdued  brilliancy  about  her  that  riveted  his 
attention,  and  an  air  of  mischief  and  expectancy. 

"I'm  longing  to  see  old  Kate,"  she  murmured. 

"Affectionate  interest?"  he  suggested. 

"Wicked  curiosity.     I  came  to  laugh." 

"And  will  remain  to  offer  incense.  That  will  be 
the  main  occupation  of  the  multitude  to-day,  I  un- 
derstand." 

She  gave  him  a  smile  indicative  of  anything  but 
a  reverent  frame  of  mind,  and  they  made  their  way 
toward  the  spot  where  the  president  stood  with 
Mrs.  Tupper. 

The  reception  was  now  well  under  way.  The 
bright  dresses  of  the  girls  flashed  here  and  there 
under  the  banners  that  trailed  from  the  walls  and 
ceiling.  Everywhere  was  motion  and  a  murmuring 
sound,  punctuated  at  intervals  by  laughter  or  by  a 
louder  burst  of  music  from  the  orchestra  in  the  bal- 
cony. 

As  they  stood,  waiting  their  turn,  they  had  an 
opportunity  to  examine  Mrs.  Tupper  at  their  lei- 
sure. The  material  of  her  gown  was  costly,  black 
velvet  trimmed  with  lace ;  but  in  the  cut  of  the  skirt 
another  of  her  prejudices  had  asserted  itself  with 
ludicrous  result,  for  it  was  as  high  as  her  ankles. 
Underneath  the  rim  of  the  gown  a  pair  of  extraor- 
dinary feet  obtruded  themselves  on  the  attention 
of  the  observant  and  tempted  their  risibility.  A 


ii6  THE   TORCH 

bright  spot  of  color  burned  in  either  sallow  cheek, 
and  she  had  left  her  spectacles  upon  her  nose,  as  if 
the  better  to  discern  her  enemies. 

The  president  was  faultlessly  dressed,  as  usual. 
His  bright  Phi  Beta  Kappa  key  flashed  conspicu- 
ously against  the  white  expanse  of  his  waistcoat. 
An  odd  speculation  came  into  Lee's  mind.  Was  the 
president's  poise  due  in  some  measure  to  his  fault- 
less dress,  or  was  his  dress  merely  an  outward  ex- 
pression of  his  mental  poise? 

No  one  would  have  guessed  from  Babington's 
manner  that  he  was  not  entirely  at  his  ease. 

"I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs.  Tupper,  our  generous 
benefactress.  Mrs.  Tupper,  this  is  Mrs.  Everett, 
the  wife  of  our  professor  of  Latin." 

Mrs.  Tupper  extended  her  hand  stiffly. 

"I'm  delighted  to  meet  you,"  said  Mrs.  Everett. 
"Mr.  Everett  is  obliged  to  be  absent  to-day  exam- 
ining schools,  but  he  wished  to  be  remembered  to 
you.  I  believe  he  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you 
some  time  ago." 

"Never  heard  of  him/'  Mrs.  Tupper  rejoined, 
timid  but  defiant.  She  glanced  appealingly  at  the 
president,  as  if  he  were  her  only  friend  in  all  that 
strange  company.  "I  can't  keep  track  of  all  the 
people  I  meet." 

"It  must  be  difficult  for  one  in  your  position,"  the 
other  answered,  somewhat  disconcerted.  "I  know 
my  husband  often  says  he  has  trouble  remembering 
his  students'  names." 

"I  shouldn't  think  he  would.  He  sees  them  every 
day,  don't  he?  Well,  if  there  ain't  Sue  Van  Sant! 


THE   FAIRY    GODMOTHER          117 

I  thought  you  was  in  Washington,  where  you  be- 
long!" 

"A  bad  penny  turns  up  again,  you  know,"  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  answered,  with  a  little  deprecatory  ges- 
ture, which  Babington  thought  charming.  "I've 
come  back  to  Argos  to  go  to  school." 

"I've  no  doubt  you  need  it,"  the  old  lady  re- 
torted. 

The  president  turned  to  Lee  with  a  greeting  both 
genial  and  ceremonious.  He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Tup- 
per,  but  the  opportunity  to  present  the  professor 
had  not  yet  arrived.  He  was  quick  to  seize  the 
chance  offered  by  their  momentary  isolation.  Only 
the  previous  evening  he  had  discovered  that  Lee 
was  a  man  to  be  reckoned  with. 

"I'm  glad  your  salary  has  taken  a  sprout,"  he  re- 
marked. "We  can't  always  do  what  we  wish  for 
our  young  men,  but  we  do  the  best  we  can.  The 
university  is  like  a  big  boy  who  is  outgrowing  his 
clothes.  While  we  are  buying  him  a  new  hat  we 
discover  that  he  needs  another  pair  of  boots,  but 
we  mean  to  catch  up  with  all  his  wants  in  time." 

Lee  had  never  found  the  president  so  affable  be- 
fore, and  reflected  scornfully  upon  the  reason  of  the 
change.  He  did  not  relish  a  tone  of  condescension 
from  one  scarcely  five  years  his  senior,  and  threw 
back  his  head  with  an  enigmatical  smile. 

"I  can  imagine  you  must  be  embarrassed  by  a 
wealth  of  wants,"  he  remarked  indifferently. 

"And  that's  the  only  kind  of  wealth  we  are  em- 
barrassed by,"  Babington  rejoined,  but  the  pro- 
fessor had  already  turned  away. 


n8  THE   TORCH 

"You  remember  me,  of  course,  Mrs.  Tupper," 
he  said.  "Nicholas  Lee.  Your  stepson  and  I  used 
to  break  the  branches  of  your  cherry-trees  regularly 
every  summer." 

"I  remember,"  she  answered,  with  a  grim  relish. 
"And  I  broke  the  branches  again  over  your  backs." 

"Not  always,"  he  retorted,  smiling  at  the  thought 
of  her  furious  and  bootless  sallies  from  the  kitchen 
door.  "I've  no  doubt  we  caused  you  endless 
trouble.  If  it  isn't  too  late,  I  offer  you  my  humble 
apologies  here  and  now." 

"I  remember  them  both  as  very  bad  little  boys," 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  interposed. 

"You  put  'em  up  to  it,  and  then  sat  on  the  fence 
and  et  the  cherries,"  Mrs.  Tupper  declared.  "Tom- 
boy!" 

She  jerked  out  the  last  word  with  such  energy 
that  Mrs.  Van  Sant  moved  on  in  pretended  panic, 
followed  by  her  accomplice  in  theft. 

They  saw  Plow  laughing  and  talking  in  the  midst 
of  a  group  of  athletes.  The  students  never  forgot 
that  he  had  once  been  a  famous  baseball  player,  and 
even  Fyffe's  witty  speeches  could  not  win  him  a 
popularity  greater  than  that  of  his  stalwart  rival. 
The  professor  left  his  admirers  and  came  up  to 
shake  hands. 

"I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  tugging  medi- 
tatively at  her  glove,  "I  scarcely  feel  respectable." 

"Is  it  the  company  you  keep  ?  Plow  asked,  with 
a  glance  at  Lee. 

She  barely  heeded  his  jest.     "I  feel  as  if  we  were 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER          119 

a  lot  of  horrid  little  children  throwing  sticks  at 
some  poor  old  woman  and  calling  her  names." 

"I'm  bound  to  say,"  Lee  remarked,  "that  it  was 
she  who  called  us  names." 

"I  saw  she  thought  I  intended  to  pick  her 
pockets,"  Plow  said,  "so  I  took  myself  off.  I'm 
not  in  this  game."  He  looked  over  the  great  room, 
now  crowded  to  the  very  doors.  "The  girls  are 
giving  this  reception,"  he  continued.  "I  don't  see 
many  of  my  esteemed  colleagues  here.  This  is  the 
children's  hour,  as  the  poet  said.  I  must  be  going." 

He  walked  leisurely  away  with  his  firm,  long 
step,  his  fine  head  and  shoulders  appearing  above  the 
crowd,  a  conspicuous  and  attractive  figure. 

Lee  and  Mrs.  Van  Sant  were  not  slow  to  follow 
his  example,  for  the  reception  had  taken  on  the 
character  of  a  young  people's  party. 

Babington  noted  the  gradual  desertion  of  his 
faculty,  but  allowed  no  sign  of  his  irritation  to  ap- 
pear. Professor  Fyffe's  daughter,  as  a  representa- 
tive of  one  of  the  swell  sororities,  stood  by  his  side 
as  his  assistant.  She  was  a  tall,  willowy  girl, 
dressed  in  white,  and  carried  a  long-stemmed 
American  Beauty  rose.  Like  her  father,  she  had  a 
great  deal  of  manner  and  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous, and  she  contrived  to  let  her  friends  understand 
her  appreciation  of  the  situation.  She  insisted  upon 
shaking  hands  with  the  visitors  sidewise  and  high 
in  the  air.  Her  manner  was  a  constant  irritant  to 
old  Kate,  for  she  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her 
knowledge  of  the  social  difference  between  herself 
and  the  guest  of  honor. 


120  THE   TORCH 

The  reception  was  not  the  great  triumph  that 
Mrs.  Tupper  had  anticipated.  Her  feet  ached  with 
weariness ;  she  was  conscious  of  the  curiosity  of  the 
young  people  who  surged  about  her.  She  divined 
that  there  was  something  amiss  in  her  appearance 
and  felt  that  the  fact  had  been  communicated  to  her 
in  some  occult  way  by  the  tall  girl  at  her  side. 

"Isn't  the  music  lovely  to-day?"  Miss  Fyffe  de- 
manded. "I'm  so  fond  of  Mendelssohn's  Friih- 
lingslied,  aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  understand  your  Greek  and  Latin,"  Mrs. 
Tupper  rejoined,  now  thoroughly  out  of  patience. 
"Plain  English  was  good  enough  for  girls  when  I 
was  young." 

"I  mean  the  Spring  Song,"  Miss  Fyffe  exclaimed 
with  a  touch  of  condescension.  "Don't  you  think 
it's  lovely?" 

"Oh,  the  band !  Why  didn't  you  say  so  ?  I  can't 
hear  it  with  all  the  noise  that's  going  on." 

As  the  reception  progressed,  she  grew  more  be- 
wildered and  irritated  by  the  people  she  met  whose 
ways  were  not  her  ways,  and  a  realization  of  the 
impotence  of  her  wealth  to  command  respect  filled 
her  with  deep  resentment.  The  expression  of  her 
face  became  fierce,  her  remarks  more  inept.  The 
gratitude  of  the  students  was  chilled,  and  they  felt 
sorry  for  their  president  as  they  divined  his  suffer- 
ings by  the  side  of  that  grotesque  figure.  They  had 
expected  to  see  a  kindly  old  lady  who  wished  them 
well,  and  resented  her  evident  and  unexpected 
hostility.  But  the  girls  still  insisted  upon  doing  the 
honors  of  the  occasion,  and  Babington  was  greatly 


THE   FAIRY   GODMOTHER          121 

relieved  when  a  bevy  of  them  took  her  away  to  get 
some  refreshments  and  to  see  the  athletic  trophies 
on  the  walls. 

They  fared  but  ill  at  her  hands.  Mrs.  Tupper 
neither  understood  nor  appreciated  athletics,  and 
took  occasion  to  remark  that  the  boys  might  be  bet- 
ter employed  than  in  knocking  a  baseball  about  a 
field,  or  in  slugging  each  other  in  a  football  match. 
It  seemed  to  the  astonished  students  that  she  re- 
membered every  serious  accident  she  had  read  in 
the  papers  during  the  past  ten  years.  While  she  was 
in  this  mood  an  unlucky  member  of  the  football 
team  was  introduced  to  her. 

"I  know  you !"  she  cried,  glowering  at  him  under 
her  heavy  brows.  "You're  the  young  man  who  set 
fire  to  my  carriage.  Don't  say  you  didn't,  for  I  saw 
you." 

The  athlete  was  so  much  amazed  at  this  unjust 
accusation  that  he  fled,  without  attempting  a  denial. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  exclaimed.  "That's  what  your 
football  does." 

She  was  highly  pleased  with  this  vindication  of 
her  prejudice. 

"Go  and  tell  Professor  Babington  that  I  want 
him  to  take  me  home  at  once,"  she  commanded. 

She  had  reached  the  limit  of  her  endurance  of 
"pawing"  and  "palavering."  The  president  had 
never  seen  her  in  a  worse  humor.  His  own  nerves 
were  not  in  the  best  condition,  but  he  braced  him- 
self for  the  ordeal  of  the  drive  to  the  capital.  They 
had  scarcely  left  the  grounds  before  she  broke  forth. 


122  THE   TORCH 

"Who's  this  man  Plow?"  she  demanded,  hotly. 

"Did  you  meet  him  this  afternoon?"  he  asked, 
fencing  for  time. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  she  replied  grimly;  "and  it's  lucky 
for  him  that  somebody  came  between  us.  I'd  have 
given  him  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"I  hope  he  hasn't  done  anything  to  offend  you," 
he  suggested. 

"Now  look  here,  Professor,"  she  cried,  "I'm  not 
going  to  give  any  more  money  to  a  school  that  has 
anarchists  on  the  faculty!  I've  been  reading  for 
some  time  what  that  man  has  been  saying  to  work- 
ing men." 

"Surely,  you  don't  mean  anarchists,"  he  pro- 
tested soothingly.  "Professor  Plow  is  what  we  call 
a  socialist.  It's  really  quite  a  different  thing." 

"No,  it  ain't,"  she  snapped.  "It  amounts  to  the 
same  thing.  If  people  like  that  had  their  way  we'd 
all  find  ourselves  murdered  in  our  beds.  I  know 
them.  That  Plow  of  yours  wants  the  workingmen 
to  own  all  the  street  railways  and  gas  companies 
and  everything.  What  right  have  they  got  to  them  ? 
Didn't  Tupper  build  the  first  ones?  Am  I  to  hand 
over  all  my  stock  to  a  lot  of  anarchists  who  never 
did  a  thing  to  earn  it?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
stand  by  and  hear  the  memory  of  my  husband  cov- 
ered with  mud?  That's  what  it  amounts  to.  He 
said  private  ownership  of  such  things  was  robbery. 
That's  what  he  said.  Then  I'm  a  robber,  too,  I 
suppose." 

"These  problems  are  being  discussed  a  great  deal 


THE   FAIRY    GODMOTHER          123 

nowadays,"  he  explained.  "Of  course,  I  don't 
agree  with  him — " 

"Then  why  don't  you  turn  him  out  ?  You're  the 
boss." 

He  explained  to  her  carefully  the  practical  diffi- 
culty of  doing  what  she  demanded.  It  might  raise  a 
storm  of  indignation  in  the  state.  A  similar  case 
had  occurred  in  another  institution,  and  the  papers 
had  rung  with  abuse  of  the  management.  It  was  a 
question  whether  the  university  could  afford  to  run 
the  risk  of  antagonizing  a  large  number  of  the  tax- 
payers. The  doctrines  Plow  taught  were  popular 
with  the  masses,  and  the  professor  himself  had  a 
large  personal  following.  He  added  that  such  theo- 
ries were  not  likely  to  be  put  into  practice  under 
present  conditions,  and  that  persecution  only  gave 
them  greater  vogue. 

The  light  of  battle  blazed  in  her  eyes. 

"That  man's  got  to  go,  or  you  don't  get  another 
cent  from  me,"  she  declared.  "I'm  not  going  to 
give  money  to  men  who  insult  my  husband's  mem- 
ory; not  if  I  know  it!  I  had  intended  to  give  you 
ten  thousand  for  the  books  you're  always  talking 
about,  but  I  won't  do  it  now." 

The  president  reflected  a  few  moments.  He 
weighed  the  immense  gifts  he  might  get  from  Mrs. 
Tupper  and  others  who  would  follow  her  example, 
against  the  consequences  of  opposing  the  masses. 
Then  his  brow  cleared  and  he  turned  to  her  with  a 
smile. 

"Mrs.  Tupper,  I  think  it  can  be  managed.  I 
don't  approve  of  Plow's  peculiar  theories  myself.  I 


124  THE   TORCH 

think  they  are  dangerous.  They  are  chimerical  and 
foster  discontent.  But  I  can't  afford  to  give  that 
as  a  reason  for  his  dismissal.  Some  other  reason 
must  be  assigned,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  will 
furnish  it  himself  before  long.  Socialism  is  one 
thing,  and  politics  quite  another.  Plow  is  begin- 
ning to  mix  the  two  already,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  will  take  an  active  part  in  the  coming  na- 
tional campaign.  We're  not  obliged  to  tolerate  po- 
litical partizanship  in  a  professor  of  the  State  Uni- 
versity. We  shall  have  to  wait  a  few  months,  but 
we  can  accomplish  our  purpose  just  as  surely.  You 
understand  ?" 

She  understood  well  enough,  but  the  plan  dis- 
pleased her.  It  was  not  Tupper's  way,  and  diplo- 
macy made  no  appeal  to  her  imagination.  Her  tan- 
trum continued  during  the  remainder  of  the  drive, 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts.  As  he  drew  her  shawl 
more  closely  about  her  against  the  evening  coolness 
he  wished  that  she  were  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  She 
would  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  scene, — the  thin 
blades  of  green  beginning  to  appear  above  the  dark 
furrows  of  the  plowed  fields,  the  glint  of  the  river 
that  wound  its  way  across  the  lowlands,  the  ridge 
of  low  hills  in  the  distance,  and  the  sunset  clouds. 

He  recalled  her  as  he  had  seen  her  for  one  brief, 
confused  moment,  but  the  picture  of  her  face  in  his 
mind  was  not  confused.  He  remembered  that  she 
had  come  with  Lee,  and  wondered  whether  she  were 
with  him  yet.  Then  he  looked  at  the  sullen,  wrin- 
kled face  beside  him,  and  commented  wearily  upon 
the  beauty  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTER   XI 

ENIGMAS 

During  the  month  that  followed  Babington  fully 
persuaded  himself  of  the  justice  of  his  plan  to  rid 
the  university  of  Professor  Plow.  It  cost  him  more 
than  one  mental  struggle  to  maintain  his  determina- 
tion. He  owed  his  present  position  in  a  large  meas- 
ure to  Plow,  but  his  old  classmate  had  failed  to 
support  him  since  his  arrival.  He  argued  with  him- 
self that  the  question  must  be  decided  without  re- 
gard to  anything  but  the  best  interests  of  the  uni- 
versity. All  other  considerations  must  be  secondary 
to  the  welfare  of  the  institution.  He  felt  that  men 
like  the  professor  of  political  economy  had  no  place 
in  university  life.  He  had  no  style,  he  was  a 
fanatic,  and  his  discussion  of  economic  questions 
was  colored  by  passion  and  prejudice.  Such  an  at- 
titude of  mind  was  injurious  to  the  young  men  in 
his  classes.  Thus  the  die  was  cast  against  his 
former  friend,  and  only  the  occasion  for  action  was 
left  uncertain. 

This  was  the  plane  on  which  he  kept  his  rea- 
soning, even  to  himself,  but  back  of  all  these  plausi- 
ble arguments  lay  a  personal  motive,  an  emotion  of 
growing  intensity.  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  kindness  to 
the  professor  was  beginning  to  fill  him  with  a  fierce, 

125 


126  THE   TORCH 

vindictive  dislike  of  the  man  such  as  no  mere  dif- 
ference of  opinion  could  cause.  He  carried  a  picture 
in  his  mind  that  stung  him,  the  picture  of  Plow 
towering  beside  her,  holding  her  hand  and  looking 
at  her  with  those  magnetic  eyes  of  his,  while  she 
smiled  back,  raising  her  face  like  an  upturned 
flower.  Compared  with  this  picture,  Lee's  pres- 
ence in  that  house  seemed  unimportant  and  could 
not  stir  his  deeper  emotions.  He  returned  to  his 
original  opinion  that  there  could  be  no  romance  be- 
tween such  good  friends. 

Mrs.  Tupper  finally  consented  to  give  the  money 
for  the  books,  in  view  of  his  promise  that  Plow 
should  go  in  the  summer  or  early  fall.  Her  de- 
mands on  his  time  became  more  and  more  exact- 
ing, and  he  began  to  feel  that  he  earned  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brow  every  cent  he  might  get  from  her.  She 
was  captious  if  he  failed  to  call  as  often  as  she 
wished,  and  he  longed  for  the  rest  and  relief  of  the 
coming  vacation. 

The  day  of  commencement  was  the  proudest  of 
his  life.  Again  the  faculty  appeared  in  all  their  re- 
galia. The  band  played  inspiring  airs.  The  gov- 
ernor rode  at  the  head  of  the  procession  of  gradu- 
ates and  professors,  accompanied  by  his  escort  of 
cavalry.  He  had  been  admitted  to  the  University 
Club  through  Babington's  efforts,  and  was  to  re- 
ceive the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  that  day.  His 
presence  added  eclat  to  the  occasion.  It  was  Bab- 
ington  who  had  brought  him  into  Academe,  together 
with  that  imposing  band  of  horsemen,  brilliant  with 
gold  braid,  waving  plumes,  and  clanking  sabers. 


ENIGMAS  127 

The  governor  had  used  his  influence  with  the  legis- 
lature to  appropriate  forty  thousand  dollars  for  a 
house  to  be  the  permanent  home  of  the  president. 
He  had  paid  well  for  his  membership  and  degree. 

The  gymnasium  had  been  enlarged  to  hold  the 
throng  and  was  packed  with  the  wealth,  the  beauty, 
and  the  ability  of  the  capital.  To  crown  all,  the 
graduating  class  was  the  largest  in  the  history  of 
the  institution.  The  fact  that  the  president  was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Van  Sant  invested  him  with  a  pe- 
culiar romance  in  the  eyes  of  a  certain  set  in  the 
university  crowd.  They  sympathized  with  his  tri- 
umph, and  hoped  that  she  would  make  it  complete. 

There  were  several  honorary  degrees  conferred 
that  day,  but  the  governor's  called  forth  the  greatest 
applause,  an  applause  in  which  there  was  a  note  of 
jocularity  and  welcome  that  announced  the  final 
burying  of  the  hatchet. 

After  the  diplomas  had  been  distributed  the  pres- 
ident came  forward  and  made  the  best  speech  he  had 
yet  delivered.  He  traced  the  history  of  the  univer- 
sity from  its  inception.  He  spoke  of  the  loyalty 
and  faith  of  those  pioneers  to  whom  it  owed  its  ori- 
gin. None  among  them  entertained  a  more  kindly 
interest  than  the  late  Mr.  Lemuel  Tupper,  to  whom 
the  state  owed  so  much.  The  president  raised  his 
hand  in  a  graceful  gesture  as  he  outlined  in  glowing 
language  the  history  of  the  late  millionaire  and 
made  the  stirring  story  the  text  for  his  advice  to  the 
young  men  before  him.  There  were  very  few  of  the 
university  constituents  who  were  not  proud  of  their 
president  as  he  stood  there  clad  in  his  silk  robes,  his 


128  THE   TORCH 

shoulders  squared,  his  face  alight  with  an  infectious 
enthusiasm  for  high  ideals. 

It  was  by  honesty,  by  frugality,  by  tireless  en- 
ergy, that  the  noble  pioneer  of  whom  he  spoke  had 
risen  in  the  world  and  left  behind  him  an  inspiring 
example  of  American  citizenship.  What  he  had 
done  they  could  do.  He  reminded  them  that  virtue 
could  never  be  exhausted,  but,  like  a  lamp,  it  ever 
kindled  others.  The  example  of  a  great  man  was 
like  the  beautiful  torch-race  among  the  ancient 
Greeks.  It  flashed  through  the  darkness  round 
about,  passing  from  hand  to  hand.  As  he  dwelt 
upon  the  picture,  Mrs.  Tupper,  sitting  near  him  on 
the  platform,  furbelowed,  flushed  with  unwonted 
excitement,  fanned  herself  violently,  and  smiled 
continually  in  a  fever  of  nervous  exultation. 

Below  him  in  the  audience  he  saw  the  face  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  thrilled  to  think  that  he  was 
winning  her  with  every  word.  She  was  there  to  see 
his  triumph,  and  he  felt  that  to-morrow  he  would 
dare  to  claim  his  reward.  It  was  her  presence  that 
fired  his  mind  with  its  finest  flashes  of  imagination. 

Lastly,  he  paid  a  graceful  tribute  to  Mrs.  Tup- 
per, the  noble  woman  who  had  honored  them  by 
her  presence  that  day.  She  had  carried  out  the 
beneficent  plan  her  husband's  failing  health  had  in- 
terrupted, and  he  was  privileged  to  announce  that 
she  had  crowned  her  first  generous  gift  by  handing 
him  that  very  morning  a  check  for  ten  thousand 
dollars,  with  which  to  buy  books  for  the  library. 

A  storm  of  applause  arrested  his  speech.  As  he 
turned  and  bowed  to  Mrs.  Tupper  his  eyes  rested  a 


ENIGMAS  129 

moment  on  Professor  Plow,  sitting  at  the  ex- 
treme right  of  the  platform,  without  an  academic 
cap  or  gown,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  requirements  of 
the  occasion.  The  professor  was  leaning  carelessly 
with  one  arm  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  his  large 
head  bent  forward,  his  unfathomable  gaze  fixed 
on  Babington.  It  was  a  sad  and  reminiscent  look, 
as  if  he  were  thinking  with  what  other  emotions  he 
had  listened  to  the  president's  first  speech  in  Argos. 

Babington  turned  again  to  face  the  audience.  His 
hand  trembled  as  he  steadied  it  on  the  table  at 
his  side.  He  felt  flouted  and  scorned  by  that  steady 
gaze,  which  seemed  to  look  through  him  and  be- 
yond. With  an  effort  he  regained  his  equipoise,  and 
his  voice  rang  out  once  more. 

"Young  men,  give  Mrs.  Tupper  one  of  your  col- 
lege cheers.  Give  it  with  a  will.  Let  her  see  that 
you  appreciate  what  she  has  done  for  your  alma 
mater!" 

A  senior  sitting  in  the  front  row  arose  and  faced 
his  classmates.  He  was  the  appointed  leader  of  the 
cheering  at  athletic  contests,  and  now  he  beat  time 
with  his  newly  acquired  diploma.  The  roar  that  re- 
sponded to  the  signal  shook  the  building.  There 
was  a  triple  cheer,  with  a  "tiger"  at  the  end.  The 
wave  of  handclapping  that  swept  over  the  audience 
afterward  sounded  like  gentle  rain  among  the  leaves 
by  comparison. 

,  The  blessing  was  pronounced  by  a  prominent 
Protestant  bishop  of  the  state,  and  the  great  throng 
melted  away. 

Thus  the  curtain  dropped  on  the  first  act  in  the 


130  THE   TORCH 

drama  of  Babington's  presidency,  and  left  him  bow- 
ing before  the  footlights. 

On  the  following  morning  he  took  his  way  hap- 
pily across  the  campus  to  Mrs.  Van  Sant's.  His 
standing  in  that  house  entitled  him  to  the  privilege 
of  making  a  morning  call,  especially  as  it  was  to  1?e 
a  call  of  farewell  for  the  summer.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  pleasurable  excitement  as  he  walked  up 
the  smooth  flagstones  that  led  from  the  street  to  her 
door.  Whenever  he  put  foot  in  her  yard  he  felt 
that  he  was  treading  on  enchanted  ground.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  catch  a  peculiar  charm  from  her; 
the  flower-beds,  the  trees,  the  restful  stretches  of 
lawn,  the  vine-wreathed  Colonial  doorway,  with  its 
suggestion  of  beauty  and  exclusiveness. 

The  president  was  in  a  conquering  mood.  The 
triumph  of  the  day  before  still  filled  him  with  ex- 
altation. At  the  regents'  meeting  in  the  evening 
everything  had  gone  as  he  wished.  He  had  obtained 
the  permission  and  the  means  to  add  to  the  faculty, 
and  was  about  to  go  east  for  that  purpose.  His 
scheme  for  the  closer  amalgamation  of  the  profes- 
sional schools  in  the  city  was  approved.  Judge 
Gates  had  gone  off  to  Europe  since  the  previous 
meeting  a  month  before.  Babington  reflected  with 
satisfaction  that  the  judge  would  be  absent  a  year, 
and  that  he  had  pacified  him  by  a  ready  acquiescence 
in  his  wish  concerning  Lee.  Mrs.  Van  Sant  had 
witnessed  his  triumph,  and  he  felt  that  something 
delicious,  something  thrilling,  might  happen  when 
he  should  stand  with  her  behind  those  shadowed 
windows.  Yesterday,  in  the  full  flush  of  his  excite- 


ENIGMAS  131 

ment,  he  had  resolved  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  but 
now  he  considered  the  possibility  with  the  caution 
of  a  man  that  has  put  a  high  value  on  himself  in 
the  matrimonial  market  for  a  number  of  years. 

He  found  the  furniture  in  the  drawing-room 
covered  with  brown  Holland,  and  the  mirrors 
draped.  She  was  a  long  time  coming.  The  fifteen 
minutes  seemed  to  his  impatient  mind  an  hour, 
while  he  listened  to  the  steady  ticking  of  the  clock 
on  the  mantel,  and  to  the  clatter  of  wagons  passing 
in  the  street.  He  looked  through  the  open  folding 
doors  into  the  room  beyond.  There,  too,  the  furni- 
ture was  draped.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  storage 
warehouse,  rather  than  in  the  home  with  which  he 
associated  so  much  charm  and  beauty.  But  when 
she  came  toward  him,  wending  her  way  through  the 
shadows,  the  illusion  was  dispelled,  and  her  pres- 
ence made  the  place  once  more  her  own. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  with  a  collar  and 
belt  of  pink,  and  her  arms  were  bare  to  her  elbows. 
She  seemed  a  personification  of  summer  coolness 
and  ease,  a  holiday  spirit. 

"You  see  me  staff  in  hand,"  she  cried  gaily, 
"ready  to  depart.  Robert  went  this  morning  on  a 
surveying  trip  in  the  mountains,  and  I'm  off  for 
California  to-morrow  to  visit  some  of  my  beloved 
relatives.  When  do  you  go  ?" 

"To-morrow,  too,"  he  replied,  "but  in  the  other 
direction.  I  must  be  in  Philadelphia  for  a  meeting 
of  the  Ethnological  Society.  I  wish  Philadelphia 
were  in  California." 

"How  ridiculous  that  would  be,"  she  said,  laugh- 


132  THE   TORCH 

ing.  "Suppose  you  had  an  Aladdin's  lamp  and  were 
to  rub  it  and  wish  Philadelphia  in  California.  How 
surprised  the  Quakers  would  be  when  they  awoke  in 
the  morning  and  discovered  where  they  were! 
What  part  of  California  would  you  put  them  in?" 

"Where  the  'beloved  relatives'  are,"  he  suggested. 

She  considered  the  proposition  seriously  a  mo- 
ment. 

"But  that  would  be  impossible,"  she  objected, 
"because  the  relatives  are  on  Alcatraz  Island  in 
San  Francisco  Bay,  in  a  military  post.  There 
wouldn't  be  room  for  a  handful  of  them.  Besides, 
how  inappropriate  to  plant  a  colony  of  Quakers  in  a 
citadel  of  war.  They  wouldn't  be  allowed  entrance." 

"Are  letters  allowed  entrance?"  he  inquired, 
"even  if  they  are  not  warlike?" 

"Sometimes,  if  they're  not  too  numerous.  But 
the  atmosphere  of  the  place  is  distinctly  belligerent. 
One  has  to  be  cautious." 

"That's  too  bad,"  he  said,  his  face  glowing  with 
enjoyment  of  their  absurd  enigmas.  "I  had  thought 
the  war  was  over." 

"Not  at  all.  It's  only  just  begun."  She  felt  that 
the  retort  was  rather  dangerous,  and  hurried  on. 

"Come  and  see  how  lovely  it  is  on  my  side 
veranda.  I  declare,  I  almost  hate  to  leave  it  for  less 
attractive  places.  I  should  like  to  sit  there  with  a 
novel  all  summer  long." 

As  they  passed  out  on  the  veranda  she  contin- 
ued :  "I  want  to  ask  your  advice  about  a  very  im- 
portant matter."  Babington  leaned  against  the  rail- 
ing and  looked  at  her  expectantly,  while  she  stood 


ENIGMAS  133 

before  him  with  a  perplexed  and  judicial  expression. 
"I  have  just  sent  a  letter  to  a  friend,"  she  explained, 
"in  which  I  said  that  the  furniture  was  already  cov- 
ered and  beginning  to  'hibernate.'  At  the  time  I 
thought  it  a  rather  fine-sounding  word,  but  after- 
ward it  flashed  into  my  mind  that  I  had  made  an 
awful  mistake.  What  could  I  have  been  thinking 
of?" 

"Bears,  I'm  sure,"  he  answered,  much  amused. 
"Probably  you  were  thinking  of  Robert's  trip  to  the 
mountains,  and  that  naturally  suggested  bears." 

"That's  it,  undoubtedly,  but  if  I  explain  that  to 
my  friend  she'll  never  believe  me.  She  used  to  be  a 
school  teacher,  and  is  very  superior." 

"You  might  telegraph  to  her  before  she  gets  the 
letter,"  he  suggested.  "Something  like  this:  'For 
hibernate  in  my  letter,  read  aestivate.' ' 

"Splendid!"  she  cried.  "I'll  do  it.  How  re- 
sourceful you  are !  I  never  should  have  thought  of 
it." 

Babington  had  often  felt  himself  in  peculiar  har- 
mony with  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  but  their  conversation 
had  never  before  verged  so  near  to  delicate  and  elu- 
sive intimacy.  In  that  green  seclusion  they  played 
the  game  with  a  dexterity  they  both  found  fascinat- 
ing. Sometimes  she  seemed  to  allow  him  a  glimpse 
of  her  inmost  mind,  and  there  was  one  fleeting  mo- 
ment when  he  felt  that  he  could  almost  have  kissed 
her.  He  lost  the  opportunity,  if  opportunity  it  were, 
and  when  it  was  gone  she  was  quite  another  person. 
She  made  him  talk  seriously  about  the  Ethnological 
Society,  as  if  there  were  nothing  that  interested  her 


134  THE   TORCH 

more.  Presently  the  pendulum  swung  back  again, 
and  she  rallied  him  about  Mrs.  Tupper. 

"Remember  what  old  Mr.  Weller  said:  'Beware 
of  vidows,  Samivel.'  I  believe  old  Kate  is  setting 
her  cap  for  you." 

He  reddened  and  laughed  in  real  embarrassment. 
Suddenly  she  broke  into  a  ripple  of  merriment.  He 
was  whirled  away  by  her  fascination,  and  the  genu- 
ineness of  his  emotion  make  him  awkward. 

"You  don't  seem  one,"  he  broke  out.  "You  seem 
the  goddess  of  this  grotto." 

She  saw  what  she  had  brought  on  herself  and 
retreated  down  the  steps,  out  into  the  sunny  lawn. 
He  followed,  breathing  quickly,  determined.  They 
were  in  full  view  of  the  street,  and  she  felt  safe. 
Still,  the  situation  called  for  desperate  measures. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  to  pay  me  such  hackneyed 
compliments?"  she  demanded,  clasping  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  and  looking  up  at  him  steadily. 
"Professor  Plow  never  pays  me  compliments.  He 
knows  I'm  not  a  goddess,  but  just  a  very  perverse 
and  cross-grained  mortal.  That's  why  I  warned 
you  to  beware  of  me." 

At  the  reference  to  Plow  he  winced  as  if  struck, 
and  she  felt  that  she  had  been  actually  cruel.  She 
saw  that  he  was  racked  by  jealousy  and  discomfi- 
ture, and  she  could  not  tell  him  how  causeless  his 
jealousy  was.  But  the  reference  to  the  professor 
had  served  her  purpose.  No  doubt  the  president  had 
shared  the  general  impression  that  she  was  merely 
waiting  for  the  word  to  fall  into  his  arms.  He 


ENIGMAS  135 

knew  now  that  the  war  was  only  begun,  and  she 
thought  it  would  do  him  good.  In  that  moment  of 
silence  between  them  Mrs.  Everett's  voice  was 
heard  calling  from  the  veranda. 

"Susanne,  where  are  you  ?    Oh !" 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  ran  up  the  steps  and  embraced  her 
friend  with  unusual  warmth.  The  president  fol- 
lowed slowly.  He  was  not  in  an  amiable  mood,  and 
his  natural  aversion  to  Mrs.  Everett  was  not  dimin- 
ished by  her  inopportune  appearance.  He  never 
understood  how  Mrs.  Van  Sant  could  endure  her. 
There  was  no  escape,  and  he  greeted  her  with  what 
courtesy  he  could  command.  Her  conversation  was 
an  irritant  to  his  shaken  nerves,  and  he  found  it  in- 
creasingly difficult  to  be  civil. 

Mrs.  Everett  divined  in  some  mysterious  way 
that  Susanne  wished  her  to  remain.  As  the  pres- 
ident saw  that  she  did  not  intend  to  go,  he  struggled 
to  recover  his  suavity,  and  watched  for  the  psycho- 
logical moment  to  depart. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  his  hostess  entreated,  as  he 
rose  to  go.  "Would  you  do  a  little  favor  for  me  ?" 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  with  restraint. 

She  went  into  the  house  and  left  him  in  doubt  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  favor  she  meant  to  ask. 

"Lovely  out  here,  isn't  it?"  Mrs.  Everett  re- 
marked, by  way  of  punctuating  the  silence  that  had 
fallen  between  them. 

"Very,"  he  replied.  "Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  just 
saying  that  she  hated  to  leave  it.  She  was  tempted 
to  stay  here  all  summer  and  read  novels." 


136  THE  TORCH 

They  were  discussing  summer  resorts  and  getting 
along  smoothly  when  Mrs.  Van  Sant  returned  with 
a  paper  in  her  hand. 

"That  telegram  we  were  talking  about,"  she  ex- 
plained. "If  you  happen  to  be  passing  the  office,  I 
should  be  ever  so  much  obliged." 

The  old  footing  was  reestablished  as  by  magic. 
She  had  only  been  teasing  him,  he  thought,  and  this 
was  a  sign  of  her  repentance.  If  he  had  not  ad- 
vanced in  her  regard  he  certainly  had  not  lost 
ground.  Another  time  he  would  speak,  but  she  had 
shown  him  that  the  time  was  not  yet. 

"And  here's  the  money,"  she  added. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  took  the  coin 
from  her  hand.  They  parted  gaily,  with  many  good 
wishes  for  a  pleasant  summer.  He  walked  across 
the  lawn  and  passed  through  the  side  gate. 

"Don't  forget  the  telegram !"  she  called  out  after 
him. 

"I  won't !"  he  shouted,  waving  his  hat  in  farewell. 

When  he  was  gone  the  two  friends  made  the  cir- 
cuit of  the  yard,  talking  of  various  things.  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  drew  a  pink  rose  through  her  belt,  and 
wished  she  had  thought  to  do  so  before. 

"And  I  never  told  him  how  well  he  spoke  his 
piece  yesterday,"  she  remarked.  "He  must  think 
me  very  unappreciative." 

They  had  not  been  speaking  of  Babington,  but 
Mrs.  Everett  was  not  surprised.  She  had  been 
thinking  with  humiliation  that  she  could  not  escape 
the  consciousness  of  the  president's  official  superior- 
ity to  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    JOLLY    GOOD    FELLOW 

There  was  a  rush  in  the  hallway  of  the  building 
in  which  the  Ethnological  Society  was  holding  its 
meeting  when  Babington's  fine  figure  loomed  in  the 
door.  He  was  quite  thrust  into  a  corner  by  the  en- 
thusiasm of  his  friends.  His  face  appeared  tossing 
above  the  little  group,  laughing  and  jovial.  His 
silk  hat  was  thrust  back  almost  boyishly  from  his 
forehead. 

"Hello,  fellows!"  he  cried.  "Jones,  Parton, 
Griggs,  how  are  you  ?" 

"They  seem  to  be  treating  you  well  out  there," 
remarked  the  president  of  an  eastern  university. 
"Come  here  and  let  us  get  a  good  look  at  you.  You 
haven't  grown  thinner.  However,  I  wouldn't  trade. 
You  still  have  to  come  east  for  some  things." 

The  remark  concerning  Babington's  appearance 
was  justified,  for  the  expanse  of  his  white  waist- 
coat had  noticeably  increased  during  the  year,  and 
now  thrust  his  shining  Phi  Beta  Kappa  key  into 
nearer  view.  His  full  throat  gave  promise  of  a 
double  chin  in  the  years  to  come,  but  his  eyes  were 
bright  and  his  step  elastic.  He  was  still  a  young 
man,  and  he  enjoyed  the  game  of  life  with  a  fresh- 

137 


138  THE   TORCH 

ness  of  feeling  that  constituted  his  chief  charm  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  had  no  cause  to  wish  him  ill. 

"I  have  to  come  east  for  some  things,  do  I?"  he 
retorted.  "I  guess  we  can  show  you  a  thing  or  two 
ourselves.  We'll  have  you  all  out  to  visit  us  some 
summer.  'Westward  the  star  of  empire  holds  its 
way.'  This  part  of  the  country  isn't  America. 
We're  thinking  of  making  a  present  of  you  to  Eng- 
land." 

A  burst  of  laughter  greeted  this  sally. 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  Plow  with  you?"  some 
one  asked. 

Plow  was  not  a  member  of  the  Ethnological  So- 
ciety, and '  the  president  suspected  that  a  secret 
shaft  lay  concealed  in  the  question.  It  was  not  un- 
likely that  rumors  of  his  trouble  with  his  professor 
of  political  economy  had  reached  the  east,  but  he 
had  come  prepared  for  that. 

"Plow  is  a  very  busy  man,"  he  replied.  "He 
takes  no  time  for  recreation.  He's  one  of  the  most 
valuable  men  we  have  in  the  university." 

"I  see  by  the  papers  that  he's  preaching  against 
the  trusts,"  said  another. 

"Just  a  harmless  hobby,"  Babington  remarked 
confidentially. 

"You  haven't  become  a  convert?"  the  eastern 
president  suggested,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
Babington  seemed  to  swell  almost  imperceptibly,  as 
was  his  wont  when  about  to  utter  a  sententious  re- 
mark. 

"I'm  not  a  politician.  I  don't  talk  my  political 
opinions;  I  vote  them.  That's  all  I'm  called  upon 


A   JOLLY   GOOD   FELLOW          139 

to  do.  But  if  Plow  feels  called  upon  to  do  other- 
wise, that's  his  concern.  Whether  I  may  agree 
with  him  or  not  doesn't  matter.  He's  a  valuable 
man,  the  kind  of  man  who  can  go  on  a  lecturing 
tour  and  bring  back  a  whole  girdle  of  scalps  to  the 
university." 

The  group  broke  up,  and  a  reporter  that  had 
lurked  unobserved  within  earshot  hurried  off  to  his 
paper.  The  national  campaign  was  now  well  un- 
der way,  and  it  was  the  fashion  to  quote  the  opin- 
ions of  college  presidents. 

Babington  paced  about  the  halls  that  morning 
with  more  than  his  usual  complacency.  He  at- 
tended the  reading  of  some  papers  to  which  he  gave 
indifferent  attention.  In  fact,  they  interested  him 
very  little.  He  could  use  the  society  now  for  other 
purposes  than  the  acquisition  of  technical  knowl- 
edge. As  the  readers  droned  on  he  sat  thinking  of 
his  own  concerns.  He  hoped  his  praise  of  Plow 
might  result  in  the  extraction  of  that  thorn  from 
his  flesh;  in  other  words,  that  the  professor  of  po- 
litical economy  might  be  called  to  an  eastern  chair. 
If  he  could  accomplish  Mrs.  Tupper's  command  in 
this  way  it  would  be  better  for  all  concerned. 

It  gave  him  no  little  satisfaction  to  reflect  that  in 
his  praise  of  Plow  he  had  not  indorsed  the  pro- 
fessor's opinions.  He  had  no  definite  opinion  in  re- 
gard to  the  Democratic  platform,  except  that  it  was 
championed  by  a  disreputable  army  of  cranks,  and 
by  the  discontented  and  vulgar  generally.  The 
state  in  which  Argos  was  situated  seemed  about 
evenly  divided  on  the  questions  at  issue  in  the 


THE   TORCH 


contest.  He  could  not  forecast  the  result  of  the 
election  as  yet.  An  ounce  of  present  silence  was 
worth  a  pound  of  future  explanation. 

His  sympathies  were  really  with  the  administra- 
tion, and  the  "imperialism"  of  which  its  enemies 
made  such  a  scarecrow  was  rather  to  his  liking. 
There  was  a  glamour  and  a  glory  and  a  good  deal 
of  dress  parade  connected  with  it.  He  felt  that  the 
tendencies  of  the  times  made  it  necessary  to  drive 
the  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water  in  har- 
ness. He  would  like  to  be  one  of  the  men  to  crack 
the  whip. 

It  was  thus  that  he  missed  the  ideal  of  a  State 
University.  He  preached  one  thing,  he  felt  another. 
He  wanted  his  university  to  grow  and  extend  its 
influence  and  become  a  great  educational  trust,  be- 
cause he  was  at  the  head  of  it.  He  favored  the  as- 
pirations of  the  vulgar  for  his  own  aggrandizement, 
but  he  loved  to  belong  to  the  privileged  few  and 
took  a  secret  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  he  was 
not  a  graduate  of  a  state  or  co-educational  institu- 
tion. 

As  he  sat  in  the  convention  of  scholars  he  knew 
that  he  was  a  figure  of  unusual  importance.  On 
the  map  of  the  country  he  mentally  pegged  out  cer- 
tain big  men  who  were  dominant  in  their  own  sec- 
tions. In  the  White  House  was  the  president  of 
the  United  States;  on  the  bench  of  the  supreme 
court  sat  the  chief  justice;  in  New  York  was  a  fa- 
mous Episcopal  bishop;  in  New  England  a  great 
university  president;  in  various  sections  various 


A  JOLLY   GOOD   FELLOW          141 

"kings"  or  "barons"  of  this  or  that  gigantic  indus- 
try ;  and  in  Argos  dwelt  President  Babington. 

To  a  certain  extent  he  was  right.  Constant  read- 
ers of  newspapers  were  beginning  to  locate  him,  for 
his  name  had  been  widely  advertised  during  the 
year.  His  private  secretary  had  circulated  his 
quotable  opinions  with  great  skill.  Babington  was 
a  long  name,  and  reverberated  afar.  Those  at  the 
center  of  the  detonation,  disillusioned  by  propin- 
quity, might  call  it  a  sham  battle,  but  to  the  listen- 
ers at  a  distance  the  echo  was  as  formidable  as  if 
the  guns  were  loaded  with  solid  shot. 

That  evening  he  took  the  president  of  the  east- 
ern college  to  dinner  and  talked  to  such  good  pur- 
pose that  he  got  him  to  promise  Plow  a  professor- 
ship. Before  going  to  bed  he  sent  the  professor  a 
telegram  apprising  him  of  the  fact,  and  then  went 
to  sleep  with  a  feeling  that  the  difficulty  was  solved. 
Doubtless  Plow  would  understand  that  he  had  no 
choice  but  to  accept.  He  certainly  ought  to  realize 
that  he  had  been  treated  better  than  he  deserved. 
The  president  felt  that  he  had  made  a  magnanimous 
return  for  his  subordinate's  disloyal  criticisms.  So 
much  he  would  do  for  the  sake  of  their  former 
friendship. 

The  next  morning  he  was  annoyed  to  find  him- 
self quoted  in  a  prominent  paper  as  having,  by  his 
praise  of  Plow,  declared  in  favor  of  his  party.  He 
restrained  his  first  impulse  to  publish  a  denial, 
moved  by  the  reflection  that  if  the  report  reached 
Argos  it  would  be  acceptable  to  at  least  half  the 


142  THE   TORCH 

state,  and  perhaps  to  the  majority.  His  freedom 
from  political  partizanship  was  well  known.  More- 
over, a  denial  might  be  construed  as  implying  that 
he  had  come  out  for  trusts  and  imperialism.  On 
the  whole,  it  seemed  better  to  let  the  matter  pass, 
and  to  pose  as  a  good-natured  victim  of  unscrupu- 
lous newspaper  enterprise. 

The  last  day  of  the  session  was  reserved  for  a  pa- 
per on  the  Chinese  by  the  president  of  the  State 
University  at  Argos.  The  popular  interest  aroused 
in  the  far  East  by  the  Spanish  war  removed  the  sub- 
ject from  the  strictly  academic  sphere,  and  the  spe- 
cialists were  almost  crowded  from  the  hall  by  the 
influx  of  the  general  public.  It  began  to  seem  but 
a  step  from  Manila  to  Peking,  though  none  could 
foresee  how  soon  that  step  would  be  taken  because 
of  the  boxers'  attack  on  the  foreign  legations. 

Babington  saw  his  opportunity  and  his  peril. 
What  diplomatic  position  might  not  come  to  him,  if 
his  remarks  attracted  the  attention  and  won  the  ap- 
proval of  the  president  of  the  United  States?  On 
the  other  hand,  he  must  avoid  offending  a  possible 
majority  of  the  constituents  of  his  university  by  an 
open  advocacy  of  the  policy  of  national  expansion. 
Jason  did  not  sail  more  cleverly  between  the  dan- 
gerous Symplegades  than  Babington  between  the 
opposing  rocks  of  political  prejudice.  He  touched 
lightly,  humorously,  upon  the  national  dilemma. 
He  did  not  venture  an  opinion  in  regard  to  the  jus- 
tice of  the  seizure  of  the  Philippine  Islands,  but  he 
accepted  the  fact  with  buoyant  resignation. 


A   JOLLY   GOOD   FELLOW          143 

Then  he  turned  an  eye  on  "the  pages  of  his- 
tory," and  drew  wise  lessons  from  the  failures  and 
successes  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  in  their 
schemes  of  colonization.  It  was  in  this  part  of  his 
speech  that  he  threw  his  bread  on  the  waters  in 
the  hope  that  it  might  return  to  him  again. 

When  he  had  lingered  in  Philippine  waters  suffi- 
ciently long  for  his  purpose  he  set  sail  for  China,  his 
ostensible  destination.  But  here  he  made  no  effort 
to  be  profound.  He  was  a  specialist  whose  written 
work  was  known.  He  therefore  adopted  a  familiar 
and  anecdotal  vein.  He  played  about  the  subject, 
he  looked  in  upon  it  quizzically,  or  digressed  into 
passages  of  eloquent  description. 

The  effort  was  a  treat  to  the  hearers  and  a  joy  to 
the  reporters.  But  a  few  careful  and  unmagnetic 
scholars  wondered  resentfully  that  such  light  talk 
could  make  such  a  stir,  while  their  own  laborious  re- 
searches created  no  ripple  and  went  quietly  to  their 
tomb  in  the  learned  records  of  the  society. 

That  night  the  professors  were  college  boys  once 
more.  Safe  from  public  scrutiny  in  the  cool,  sub- 
terranean Rathskeller,  they  drank  German  beers 
from  capacious  mugs  and  laid  aside  the  dignity  of 
Academe.  Tables  were  thrust  companionably  to- 
gether. Tobacco  smoke  floated  in  eddying  clouds 
through  the  room,  driven  by  the  breeze  whipped 
from  the  whirring  electric  fans.  Snatches  of  songs 
in  German  and  Latin  punctuated  impromptu 
speeches.  Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es  bedeuten  and 
Gandeamus  igitur  arose  in  emulous  rivalry. 


144,  THE   TORCH 

Babington  was  elected  president  of  the  society  for 
the  ensuing  year.  The  steins  clattered  on  the  oaken 
tables  and  cries  of  "Speech !  speech !"  broke  forth  on 
on  all  sides. 

Babington  was  on  his  feet  in  response  to  the  de- 
mand, beaming  down  on  his  friends,  and  waiting 
for  silence.  But  the  room  was  in  confusion.  Wait- 
ers hurried  to  and  fro;  men  talked  in  groups  and 
were  slow  to  stop  even  for  the  pleasure  of  listening 
to  the  new  president.  He  was  equal  to  the  situa- 
tion. 

"Gentlemen !"  he  cried,  "we're  not  here  to  listen 
to  speeches.  This  is  what  we  came  for.  Prosit!" 
He  raised  his  mug  to  his  lips  and  drained  it  to  the 
bottom. 

There  was  undeniable  relief  in  the  applause  that 
greeted  him  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  Again  the 
mugs  thumped  noisily,  and  the  thanks  of  his  com- 
rades came  gratefully  to  his  ears  in  the  familiar  re- 
frain : 

For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
Which  nobody  can  deny! 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A    MATCHING    OF    WITS 

Mrs.  Tupper  was  ill  when  Babington  returned  to 
Argos  early  in  September.  He  sent  her  flowers, 
and  a  note  of  sympathetic  inquiry  in  which  he 
begged  the  privilege  of  paying  his  respects  in  per- 
son as  soon  as  her  health  should  permit.  Her  ill- 
ness was  a  godsend  to  him  at  that  time,  for  his  first 
fortnight  at  home  was  crowded  with  cares  and 
anxieties.  He  longed  for  the  relief  of  a  chat  with 
Mrs.  Van  Sant,  but  she  had  not  yet  returned. 

After  the  Philadelphia  meeting  he  ventured  to 
send  her  a  letter,  and  a  reply  came  in  due  time.  The 
letter  was  so  like  herself  that  he  answered  it  at  some 
length  and  with  obvious  warmth.  Then  followed 
a  silence  between  them  which  he  could  not  break. 
He  assigned  coquetry,  rather  than  displeasure,  as 
the  cause,  and  awaited  her  arrival  with  impatience. 

The  alterations  of  the  large  mansion,  which  had 
been  purchased  for  him  in  the  spring,  were  nearly 
completed.  Argos,  like  so  many  other  towns,  had 
its  "folly,"  and  "Philbrook's  folly,"  a  deserted 
home  for  broken-down  actors,  had  long  stood  await- 
ing a  purchaser  until  the  board  of  regents  secured  it 
for  the  president. 

The  term  had  not  yet  begun,  and  the  duties  that 
145 


146  THE   TORCH 

claimed  his  attention  were  apparently  innumerable. 
Many  things  that  he  had  ordered  to  be  done  were 
not  finished.  It  seemed  to  his  impatient  nature  that 
everything  devolved  upon  him  alone,  that  he  must 
push  here  and  drive  there  unceasingly  to  keep  the 
huge  machinery  of  the  university  in  running  order. 
The  contrast  between  his  present  position  and  the 
easy  glories  of  his  vacation  was  a  constant  trial, 
and  he  found  the  harness  of  office  even  more  galling 
than  before.  He  had  enjoyed  visiting  eastern  uni- 
versities and  interviewing  new  men  in  regard  to 
faculty  positions  in  Argos.  The  eagerness  of  young 
doctors  of  philosophy  to  come  was  gratifying,  and 
he  had  secured  several  at  his  own  terms. 

Babington's  nature  was  fundamentally  pleasure- 
loving.  It  was  because  success  was  the  pleasantest 
thing  in  the  world  to  him  that  he  had  endured  toil 
to  win  it;  but  now  that  toil  was  becoming  distaste- 
ful. He  hated  detail,  and  matters  of  detail  were 
forced  on  his  attention  at  every  turn. 

The  great  campaign  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
Plow  had  refused  the  eastern  professorship,  and 
was  stumping  the  state  in  the  interests  of  his  polit- 
ical hero.  His  curt  refusal  had  put  Babington  in 
an  awkward  position  with  the  eastern  president, 
whom  he  had  persuaded  with  difficulty  to  take  the 
professor.  This  was  another  score  to  be  wiped  out 
in  the  final  reckoning,  and  Babington  bided  his 
time.  He  had  told  Mrs.  Tupper  that  political  par- 
tizanship  in  a  professor  of  a  state  university  was 
sufficient  cause  for  removal;  but  if  the  Democrats 


A   MATCHING   OF   WITS  147 

should  triumph  in  November,  what  then?  He 
must  await  the  event. 

The  personality  of  the  professor  loomed  more 
and  more  threatening  as  the  din  of  the  political  bat- 
tle swelled  toward  its  climax.  It  would  not  do  to 
make  a  popular  hero  of  him  by  a  summary  dismis- 
sal, yet  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Tupper  expected  him  to 
keep  his  promise.  Should  he  obey  her  command 
and  defy  public  opinion,  or  side  with  the  many?  He 
saw  the  necessity  of  straddling  the  fence  until  he 
should  find  out  what  the  opinion  of  the  many  might 
be.  Meanwhile,  he  thanked  his  lucky  star  for  the 
illness  of  Mrs.  Tupper,  which  postponed  the  day  of 
explanation. 

One  sultry  afternoon  a  reporter  gained  admit- 
tance to  the  president's  office.  He  was  sitting  at 
his  desk  when  he  heard  what  seemed  to  be  a  scuffle 
at  the  door,  and  the  next  moment  a  large  and  hand- 
some woman,  dressed  in  white,  walked  triumph- 
antly past  the  defeated  Watkins. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  heard  her  say.  "You  needn't 
go  to  see  whether  he's  in.  I'll  find  out  for  myself, 
and  save  you  the  trouble." 

She  took  a  chair,  uninvited,  directly  fronting  the 
desk,  and  announced  herself  in  a  fresh,  strong 
voice :  "Miss  Wiley,  of  The  Times.  I  just  dropped 
in  to  get  a  short  article  on  your  eastern  trip." 

The  president  knew  Miss  Wiley  very  well  by  rep- 
utation, but  had  never  seen  her  before.  Fyffe  had 
told  him  that  the  thinly  veiled  hostility  of  The  Times 
was  due  to  this  woman.  In  her  senior  year  at  the 


148  THE   TORCH 

university  she  had  barely  failed  to  receive  the  gold 
medal  for  high  scholarship.  The  prize  had  gone  to 
a  man,  and  she  was  firmly  convinced  that  the  award 
was  based  on  sex  rather  than  merit.  For  this 
reason  she  hated  her  alma  mater,  or  rather,  the  fac- 
ulty, and  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  ridicule  the 
men  who  had  robbed  her  of  her  just  deserts. 

As  far  as  Babington  was  concerned,  it  was  suffi- 
cient to  arouse  her  dislike  that  he  was  a  man ;  but  if 
he  had  been  peculiarly  favorable  toward  the  women 
students  she  might  have  relented.  In  spite  of  his 
efforts  to  appear  impartial,  however,  the  impression 
was  early  disseminated  that  he  regarded  the  pres- 
ence of  women  in  the  university  almost  as  an  intru- 
sion. In  a  hundred  little  ways,  to  be  felt  rather 
than  described,  he  had  shown  his  indifference  to 
them ;  and  Miss  Wiley  was  one  of  the  first  to  learn 
of  his  attitude. 

How  she  had  gained  such  influence  with  The 
Times  as  to  be  allowed  to  air  her  opinions  on  the 
editorial  page  was  a  question  that  gave  birth  to  a 
hint  of  scandal.  Professor  Fyffe  knew  who  wrote 
those  breezy  paragraphs  about  the  "bibulous  pro- 
pensities of  a  certain  eminent  scientist  connected 
with  the  State  University,"  and  perhaps  he  honestly 
thought  that  a  woman  who  could  stoop  to  such  un- 
derhand methods  could  do  anything.  Babington 
was  not  inclined  to  attach  much  weight  to  Fyffe's 
innuendoes,  and  guessed  correctly  that  Miss  Wiley's 
influence  on  The  Times  was  not  due  to  the  favor 
of  the  editor,  but  to  the  policy  of  sensation  that 
the  paper  fostered.  As  he  looked  at  her  now,  un- 


A   MATCHING   OF   WITS  149 

deniably  handsome,  business-like,  shrewd,  mopping 
her  wholesome  countenance  with  a  violet-scented, 
freshly  laundered  handkerchief,  his  spirits  sank  be- 
fore her  confident  bearing. 

"I'm  a  graduate  of  the  university  myself,"  she 
continued,  "class  of  ninety-three,  and,  of  course,  am 
particularly  interested  in  university  news.  Are 
there  to  be  any  new  professors  this  term  ?" 

The  president  gave  her  a  budget  of  considerable 
interest  and  volume,  and  when  he  had  finished  he 
fumbled  with  the  papers  on  his  desk  to  convey  a 
hint  that  he  regarded  the  interview  at  an  end.  But 
she  was  not  to  be  thus  dismissed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  present  political  cam- 
paign?" she  asked  squarely.  "Your  views  on  the 
subject  at  this  time  would  be  of  great  interest  to  the 
public." 

Babington  answered  slowly,  weighing  his  words. 

"My  opinion  on  that  subject  can  be  of  no  partic- 
ular interest  to  the  public.  It  is  my  business  to  run 
the  university  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  and  my 
opinion  on  political  matters  is  of  no  more  value 
than  another's.  When  the  time  comes  to  vote  I 
shall  cast  my  ballot  as  I  see  fit.  As  president  of  the 
State  University,  I  feel  that  it  is  not  incumbent 
upon  me  to  preach  political  doctrines.  I  have  all  I 
can  do  to  attend  to  my  legitimate  duties." 

He  replaced  his  glasses  on  his  nose,  and  began 
to  turn  over  his  papers  once  more. 

"Professor  Plow  is  evidently  of  a  different  opin- 
ion," she  remarked,  cheerful  and  indomitable  as 
ever.  "He  doesn't  seem  to  feel  that  his  connection 


150  THE   TORCH 

with  the  university  is  a  bar  to  the  free  expression 
of  his  opinion  on  these  matters." 

"Professor  Plow's  methods  are  his  own,"  Bab- 
ington  retorted,  stung  to  anger  by  a  sudden  real- 
ization of  the  trouble  Plow's  obstinacy  had  brought 
upon  him.  The  color  mounted  to  his  face,  and  his 
eyes  flashed.  Miss  Wiley  was  calm  and  interested. 
Only  her  tightened  grasp  on  her  pencil  indicated 
the  excitement  of  the  hunter  that  has  struck  the 
trail. 

"Then  his  methods  lack  your  approval?"  she 
queried.  "There  has  been  an  impression  abroad 
that  he  voices  your  opinions.  The  public  would  be 
glad  to  be  set  right." 

The  president's  irritation  and  excitement  in- 
creased at  a  bound. 

"My  opinions!  I  never  told  him  my  opinions! 
We  never  discussed  these  questions.  How  in 
heaven's  name  could  such  an  impression  get 
abroad?" 

As  his  irritation  increased  her  smile  became  more 
friendly  and  bland. 

"About  a  year  ago,  I  believe,  you  sent  Professor 
Plow  to  speak  in  your  place  before  a  labor  union, 
and  in  your  letter  to  the  union  you  said  that  he  rep- 
resented your  opinions.  His  attitude  at  that  meet- 
ing, and  since  then,  has  been  hostile  to  trusts." 

The  president  gasped  with  astonishment.  Then 
he  spoke  with  a  certain  dignity  of  indignation. 

"That  letter  was  merely  a  general  expression  of 
confidence.  I  was  very  busy  at  the  time,  and  per- 
haps did  not  weigh  each  phrase.  As  a  matter  of 


A   MATCHING   OF   WITS  151 

fact,  I  did  not  know  then  just  what  Mr.  Plow's 
opinions  were." 

She  opened  her  eyes  in  apparent  wonder,  and 
continued  relentlessly :  "The  public  had  heard  that 
you  and  Professor  Plow  were  old  friends,  had  been 
classmates  in  college,  and  so  they  naturally  inferred 
that  you  were  acquainted  v/ith  his  views.  Since 
then,  you  were  quoted  as  approving  his  lecture 
tours,  at  the  convention  in  Philadelphia." 

"Not  quoted,  but  misquoted,"  he  returned,  squar- 
ing his  jaw  at  her  belligerently.  "Whatever  I  may 
have  said  at  that  time,  I  did  not  say  a  word  that 
could  be  construed  as  an  expression  of  approval  of 
his  peculiar  doctrines.  I  merely  remarked  that,  as 
a  general  thing,  an  able  lecturer  in  the  faculty  re- 
flects great  credit  upon  the  university." 

He  felt  that  he  had  extricated  himself  neatly  from 
the  dilemma,  and  his  stare  conveyed  an  opinion  of 
his  questioner  that  was  far  from  complimentary. 
But  she  was  more  keen  than  he  had  supposed. 

"It  was  apropos  of  these  political  lecture  tours  of 
Professor  Plow's  that  the  remark  was  made,  was  it 
not?  You  said,  if  I  remember  rightly,  that  he 
brought  back  a  whole  'girdle  of  scalps'  to  the  uni- 
versity. However,  from  what  you  say  to-day,  I  in- 
fer that  you  have  changed  your  mind,  and  do  not 
approve  of  a  professor  in  a  state  university  preach- 
ing party  politics." 

Babington  saw  that  he  was  caught.  Her  Socratic 
method  had  driven  him  into  a  corner,  and  he  did  not 
know  which  way  to  turn.  There  was  something  pe- 
culiarly mortifying,  also,  in  the  reappearance  of  the 


152  THE   TORCH 

phrase,  "a  girdle  of  scalps."  He  had  thought  it 
rather  fine  at  first,  and  had  used  it  several  times. 
Now  it  seemed  ridiculous.  He  had  an  absurd  vi- 
sion of  Plow  prancing  back  to  Argos  like  a  wild  In- 
dian, his  tomahawk  raised  aloft,  a  girdle  of  scalps 
flopping  about  his  waist.  He  arose  to  his  feet  in  a 
wrathful  panic. 

"Miss  Wiley,"  he  cried,  "I  am  not  aware  that  I 
am  on  the  witness-stand  before  you.  You  will  have 
to  excuse  me.  I  am  very  busy  with  university  mat- 
ters and  can  not  stop  now  to  discuss  politics.  In  re- 
gard to  Professor  Plow,  I  have  nothing  to  say, 
nothing  whatever.  I  wish  you  good  day." 

She  faced  him  imperturbably,  though  aching  in- 
wardly with  suppressed  laughter. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  President,  I  shall  remember. 
Thank  you  very  much  for  your  courtesy.  Good 
afternoon." 

When  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Babington 
turned  on  Watkins. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said,  white  with  passion,  "if 
this  ever  occurs  again,  I'll — " 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  sir,"  the  poor  fellow  stam- 
mered. "She  was  a  lady — " 

"A  lady!"  Babington  echoed  scornfully.  He 
vented  his  emotions  in  a  short,  ugly  little  laugh,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  fuming.  He  was 
made  ridiculous.  He  had  been  bullied  and  worsted 
by  a  servant  of  yellow  journalism.  His  dignity  was 
punctured,  and  he  had  come  to  earth.  It  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  settle  down  again  to  his  corre- 
spondence. He  seized  his  hat  and  strode  from  the 


A   MATCHING   OF   WITS  153 

room,  giving  Watkins  a  black  look  as  he  passed. 
Even  in  that  moment  of  profound  irritation  with  his 
secretary,  he  was  too  well  aware  of  the  young  man's 
usefulness  to  think  of  discharging  him. 

During  the  next  two  hours  he  made  the  delin- 
quent janitors  and  carpenters  uncomfortable.  Only 
fear  of  a  possible  strike  and  of  further  complica- 
tions with  labor  unions  prevented  him  from  dis- 
charging some  of  them  on  the  spot;  and  he  felt 
more  than  ever  exasperated  when  he  thought  of 
their  impudent  assurance.  It  was  with  such  fel- 
lows, he  reflected,  that  Plow  hobnobbed,  and  nat- 
urally, since  he  belonged  to  their  class. 

As  Babington  thought  over  the  interview  more 
calmly,  he  became  convinced  that  Plow  was  work- 
ing against  him  in  the  dark.  How  did  The  Times 
get  hold  of  that  letter  in  which  he  indorsed  the  pro- 
fessor's opinions?  Had  Plow  something  to  do 
with  it?  Even  at  that  early  date  had  he  begun  a 
still  hunt  against  his  president,  expecting  an  inev- 
itable breach  between  them,  and  getting  ready  his 
weapons  of  war  ?  Was  he  trying  to  court  discipline 
that  he  might  play  the  martyr,  and  perhaps  become 
president  of  the  university  himself  ?  No  wonder  he 
had  refused  the  call  east ! 

The  president  felt  that  he  suddenly  had  a  new 
insight  into  the  character  of  his  former  friend.  He 
saw  now  behind  the  mask  of  that  inscrutable  gaze. 
He  remembered  the  incident  at  commencement. 
That  look  meant  hatred  and  jealousy,  if  it  meant 
anything.  Then  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant  rose 
before  him,  as  she  stood  in  the  brilliant  June  sun- 


154  THE   TORCH 

light  in  her  garden,  her  chin  upraised,  her  bright 
eyes  looking  straight  into  his,,  her  fine  hair  an  aure- 
ole. 

"Professor  Plow  never  pays  me  compliments.  He 
knows  I'm  not  a  goddess,  but  just  a  very  perverse 
and  cross-grained  mortal." 

How  often  he  had  recalled  that  delicious  self- 
characterization  !  But  why  should  Plow  know  any- 
thing about  her,  or  think  about  her  at  all?  He 
shook  with  a  cruel  fury  to  imagine  that  the  profes- 
sor's great  hands  might  ever  be  laid  on  her  in 
love.  The  thought  that  she  had  not  answered  his 
second  letter  filled  his  cup  of  emotion  to  overflow- 
ing. It  was  fortunate  that  Plow  was  away.  Had 
he  met  the  president  on  the  campus  that  afternoon 
he  might  have  received  his  conge  then  and  there. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

OIL  ON   THE   WATERS 

When  Mrs.  Tupper  read  The  Times  the  follow- 
ing morning  she  recovered  abruptly  from  her  ill- 
ness. Sometimes  great  joy  bids  an  invalid  take  up 
his  bed  and  walk;  sometimes  a  sense  of  duty,  or  a 
realization  of  danger,  will  accomplish  the  cure.  In 
Mrs.  Tupper's  case  the  propelling  power  was  pro- 
found irritation.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  die 
while  such  things  were  happening,  or,  as  she  idio- 
matically expressed  it,  "while  there  was  such  goings 
on." 

Miss  Wiley's  interview  with  the  president  was  ac- 
corded a  prominent  place  in  the  paper,  and  made 
further  conspicuous  by  heavy  headlines.  The 
Times  that  morning  was  a  kind  of  electric  battery 
dealing  at  least  two  readers  a  series  of  shocks,  but 
in  Babington's  heart  the  hot  waves  of  anger  were 
succeeded  by  cold  drenches  of  dismay.  He  turned 
from  the  account  of  the  interview  to  the  editorial 
page,  and  there  his  worst  fears  were  realized. 
Under  the  heading,  Janus  Babington  and  Daniel 
Plow,  his  inconsistency,  as  contrasted  with  Plow's 
honesty,  was  mercilessly  exposed.  The  article  was 
clever  and  satiric  from  beginning  to  end.  The 

155 


156  THE   TORCH 

president's  letter  to  the  labor  union  was  printed 
verbatim,  and  his  efforts  to  explain  it  away  were 
riddled  with  vindictive  delight.  Babington's  spirits 
sank  as  he  reflected  that  this  was  probably  only  the 
first  broadside  of  an  attack  that  would  be  continu- 
ous. 

He  must  make  his  peace  with  the  Fairy  God- 
mother for  failing  to  send  the  professor  about  his 
business.  In  his  extremity  he  wrote  her  a  little 
note,  in  which  the  sole  message  was  solicitude  for 
her  health,  and  sent  it  by  a  messenger  boy,  together 
with  a  box  of  roses  from  the  greenhouse.  The  boy 
passed  another  about  midway  bearing  winged  words 
from  Mrs.  Tupper  to  the  president. 

Babington  was  in  his  office,  about  eleven  o'clock, 
when  the  letter  came.  He  tore  it  open  nervously 
and  gazed  on  what  appeared  at  first  sight  to  be 
the  record  of  a  seismograph,  so  stormy  were  the 
emotions  that  had  driven  the  writer's  pen.  At  last 
he  made  out  the  following  summons : 

Professor  what  in  the  Name  of  Common  sence  is 
the  matter  with  You  to  let  a  fool  Reporter  mix  you 
all  up  so  you  dont  know  what  your  saying  and  why 
dont  you  fire  that  man  Plow  as  you  say  you  would, 
if  you  come  over  this  afternoon  I  can  give  you 
some  good  advice.  Mrs.  Tupper. 

As  soon  as  he  had  recovered  sufficiently  from  the 
shock  of  this  note  he  penned  a  brief  reply,  congrat- 
ulating Mrs.  Tupper  upon  her  recovery,  and  prom- 
ising to  call  at  four  o'clock. 


OIL   ON   THE   WATERS  157 

There  were  certain  things  that  the  president  un- 
consciously used  to  supply  the  lack  of  moral  cour- 
age and  spiritual  equipoise.  Many  times  he  found 
the  proprieties  of  life  a  rampart,  from  which  he 
could  look  down  on  the  world  with  comparative 
serenity.  As  he  mounted  his  horse  that  afternoon 
he  appreciated  the  advantage  of  the  man  that  rides 
over  the  man  on  foot.  There  was  something  exhil- 
arating in  throwing  his  leg  over  a  fine  animal,  in 
straightening  up  in  the  stirrups,  in  the  wider  view 
of  the  landscape  thus  obtained,  and,  above  all,  in 
the  quiver  of  a  spirited  creature  beneath  him  whose 
spirit,  however  strong,  was  yet  mastered  every  mo- 
ment by  his  own. 

There  was  an  additional  satisfaction  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  his  clothes  were  what  a  horseman's  should 
be.  In  spite  of  his  size  and  weight,  he  sat  well, 
and  no  one  could  think  him  awkward  or  ungainly. 
As  he  cantered  through  Argos,  returning  saluta- 
tions with  the  butt  of  his  whip  and  keeping  his 
horse  well  in  hand,  the  spectators  who  had  chuckled 
over  the  morning  papers  were  made  to  feel  that  the 
attack  was  futile,  even  ridiculous.  It  seemed  now 
to  be  mere  newspaper  talk,  the  spleen  of  yellow 
journalism.  Even  those  whose  knowledge  of  the 
man  had  made  them  swear  that  the  report  of  the  in- 
terview was  deliciously  accurate  now  felt,  for  a  mo- 
ment, that  it  might  have  been  retouched.  But 
when  he  had  passed  by  they  returned  to  their  orig- 
inal opinion,  wondering  resentfully  at  the  unfair 
influence  of  his  presence. 

Babington  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  arguments 


158  THE   TORCH 

by  which  he  intended  to  pacify  old  Kate.  He  was 
not  without  resentment  that  she  should  presume  so 
far;  and  yet  the  woman  that  had  penned  that  illit- 
erate letter  on  cheap,  ruled  paper  could  write 
checks  of  fabulous  worth.  In  her  he  saw  his  op- 
portunity. Her  gifts  to  the  university  had  enabled 
him  to  finish  his  first  year  at  Argos  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,  and  succeeding  benefactions  would  hush  the 
murmurs  against  his  large  salary  and  the  com- 
plaints in  regard  to  the  mansion  he  was  rebuilding 
for  himself  with  the  money  of  the  state. 

Immersed  in  these  thoughts  he  cantered  up  the 
avenue  of  maples,  now  beginning  to  take  on  the 
first  rich  tints  of  autumn  coloring,  and  tied  his 
horse  to  the  little  iron  negro  at  the  front  steps. 

A  new  maid  came  to  the  door  and  directed  him  to 
the  parlor,  into  which  he  had  first  entered  through 
the  window.  The  rehabilitation  of  the  house  was 
now  complete,  and  no  trace  remained  of  that  grad- 
ual decay  that  had  given  the  place  its  only  claim  to 
interest  and  romance.  Everything  was  glaringly 
new,  and  as  he  walked  restlessly  up  and  down, 
awaiting  Mrs.  Tupper's  arrival,  he  fancied  the  odor 
of  varnish  in  the  air.  He  anticipated  a  stormy  in- 
terview, and  whipped  his  leg  nervously  as  he 
stopped  in  his  walk  to  look  at  the  face  of  the  re- 
doubtable Tupper.  The  painted  eyes  looked  back 
at  him  coldly,  scornfully,  and  he  turned  away  un- 
easily, as  from  a  living  presence. 

Mrs.  Tupper  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  bob- 
bing, smiling,  one  of  the  roses  he  had  sent  her  that 
morning  fluttering  at  her  breast.  He  almost  cried 


OIL   ON   THE    WATERS  159 

out  in  astonishment  at  the  sight.  An  impression  of 
feebleness  and  age  was  intensified,  rather  than  re- 
lieved, by  the  bright  flower  and  by  the  patches  of 
powder  on  her  face.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  side 
of  the  door,  as  if  for  support.  As  he  hurried  for- 
ward to  greet  her  he  saw,  not  the  termagant  he  had 
feared,  but  a  feeble  old  woman,  grotesquely  gay, 
lifting  a  glance  of  feminine  appeal  for  approval! 
There  was  both  pity  and  repulsion  in  his  heart  as  he 
took  her  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said  kindly.  "But  I 
needn't  ask.  I  never  saw  you  looking  better."  She 
fluttered  into  a  chair. 

"You  never  saw  me  looking  worse,"  she  retorted, 
crimson.  "That's  what  you  thought  the  minute  you 
set  eyes  on  me.  Don't  tell  me ;  I  know.  Old  Kate 
Tupper  ain't  altogether  a  fool  yet." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mean  to  imply  that  you  expect 
to  become  one  soon,"  he  returned. 

She  loved  a  quick  reply,  and  her  wintry  smile  re- 
warded him. 

"If  I  took  lessons  from  some  folks  I  wouldn't 
have  to  expect  very  long,"  she  remarked  pointedly. 

"You  mean  me,  of  course,"  he  returned.  His  old 
sense  of  power  over  her  had  come  back,  now  that  he 
saw  her  again.  He  launched  into  a  smooth  explana- 
tion of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  been  misrepre- 
sented by  Miss  Wiley.  She  looked  at  him  steadily, 
but  did  not  appear  to  follow  his  remarks  with  at- 
tention. Suddenly  she  startled  him  by  interrupting 
in  a  kind  of  fury. 

"The  hussy !    Haven't  I  heard  of  her  ?    But  you 


160  THE   TORCH 

ain't  a  bit  smart."  She  looked  at  him  in  pity,  tak- 
ing his  part  against  the  other  woman.  "I  could 
have  managed  her,"  she  declared  grimly. 

Nothing  she  had  ever  said  to  him  had  been  more 
disconcerting.  She  did  not  credit  his  explanation. 
She  knew  that  Miss  Wiley  had  outwitted  him,  and 
she  raged  against  her  for  her  superior  cleverness. 
He  was  keenly  humiliated  to  realize  that  this  old 
beldam  would  fain  spread  out  her  skirts  to  screen 
him  from  a  discerning  world. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  drawing  himself  up  with 
offended  dignity. 

"I  guess  I  don't  express  myself  very  well,"  she 
explained.  He  found  her  sudden  feminine  humility 
more  trying  than  any  burst  of  temper.  "You're 
smart  enough  in  some  ways,  lots  smarter  than  old 
Tupper  up  there  used  to  be.  He  didn't  have  book 
learning,  but  he  could  manage  reporters.  He  just 
told  them  to  go  to  the  devil,  and  slammed  the  door 
in  their  faces.  When  a  man  gave  him  any  trouble 
he  kicked  him  out.  I  used  to  hear  him  say,  'If  you 
don't  kick  a  man  out  when  he  begins  to  get  uppish 
he'll  kick  you  out;  so  you'd  better  get  in  your  kick 
first.'  Now  there's  that  anarchist,  Plow.  If  you 
knew  what  he  was  up  to,  you'd  do  what  you  prom- 
ised to  last  spring.  You'd  give  him  his  walking 
papers  quick." 

"You  mean  he  wants  to  be  president  of  the  uni- 
versity himself?  I've  thought  of  that." 

"That's  it,"  she  cried.  "I  knew  you  wasn't  so 
dumb.  You've  read  what  he  said  in  one  of  his 


OIL   ON    THE    WATERS  161 

speeches — what  a  university  ought  to  be.  What 
does  he  mean  by  that?" 

"That  he  could  run  it  better  than  I,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Just  so.  Then  why  don't  you  turn  him  out? 
That's  what  I  say."  She  struck  the  arm  of  her 
chair  in  a  spasm  of  irritation. 

"I  got  him  a  call  to  an  eastern  college,  and  he  re- 
fused it.  Of  course,  he'll  have  to  go  sooner  or  later, 
but  I  think  we'd  better  wait  until  after  the  election. 
He's  more  popular  in  the  state  than  you  realize,  and 
I  don't  want  to  give  him  any  satisfaction  by  making 
a  martyr  of  him." 

"You're  too  good  to  him,"  she  said,  her  eyes  full 
of  chiding  admiration.  "He  didn't  accept  it,  didn't 
he?  Perhaps  he  had  sense  enough  to  know  that 
they  wouldn't  keep  him  long.  They  don't  want  a 
firebrand  in  those  colleges.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Professor ;  you're  afraid  of  talk.  It  don't  do  near  as 
much  harm  as  you  think  it  does.  People  don't  con- 
cern themselves  about  a  man  that's  out  of  a  job. 
They've  got  their  own  affairs  to  think  of.  If  you 
kicked  him  out  you'd  find  that  people  would  respect 
you  for  it.  I  ain't  going  to  wear  myself  out  talk- 
ing about  it  to  you  any  more.  You  know  I  mean 
what  I  say.  You  don't  get  another  cent  for  your 
college  until  that  man  goes." 

The  spicy  quality  of  her  last  declaration  was  a  re- 
lief. Anything  was  preferable  to  the  hint  of  ro- 
mance that  had  given  him  such  distress. 

"You'll  take  a  drink  before  you  go  back,"  she 


1 62  THE    TORCH 

said,  as  he  rose.  "I  need  one  myself."  He  pulled 
the  bell-rope  for  her. 

"I'll  have  anything  in  my  house,"  she  continued, 
"but  one  of  those  electric  buzzers.  You  might  just 
as  well  sit  in  the  death-chair  and  be  done  with  it." 

Babington  laughed  at  the  reappearance  of  the 
familiar  prejudice,  and  the  atmosphere  was  cleared 
for  the  remainder  of  his  call.  Over  the  toddies  she 
grew  reminiscent. 

"It's  the  same  Tupper  used  to  keep,"  she  re- 
marked, "though  he  never  drunk  much  of  it  him- 
self. It  was  more  in  his  line  to  give  it  to  other  men 
till  he  had  them  where  he  wanted  them.  He  was 
that  smart,  they  never  found  him  out;  but  I  did. 
I've  seen  him  sell  many  a  gold  brick  to  English  in- 
vestors over  this  stuff.  He  hadn't  no  opinion  of  the 
English.  He  always  told  them  he'd  let  them  in  on 
the  ground  floor,  instead  of  which  he  dropped  them 
into  the  cellar." 

Babington  joined  easily  in  her  chuckle  over  the 
villainies  of  the  departed  Tupper,  whom  he  had  so 
eloquently  eulogized  at  the  previous  commencement. 

"Those  old  fellows  weren't  troubled  much  with 
a  conscience,"  he  remarked.  The  comment  was 
rather  admiring  than  condemnatory. 

"Not  much,"  she  assented.  "What's  the  use? 
You  can't  go  far  if  you  get  tangled  up  in  your  con- 
science every  step.  Conscience  is  mostly  hunting 
for  fine  words  to  excuse  yourself  with,  anyway.  I 
learned  that  at  church,  when  I  used  to  go.  There 
wasn't  much  some  of  those  deacons  wasn't  into,  I 
can  tell  you.  But  Tupper  called  a  spade  a  spade. 


OIL.  ON   THE   WATERS  163 

He  went  into  the  legislature  and  bought  it  up,  like 
a  man  would  peanuts  on  the  street.  And  when  he 
got  the  railroad  through  he  made  the  farmers  pay 
for  it.  That's  why  they  hated  him.  But  how  would 
they  ever  have  got  their  grain  and  cattle  to  market 
if  he  hadn't  built  them  a  railroad,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 
They  ought  to  have  paid  for  it.  Now,  men  like 
Plow  want  me  to  give  up  my  stock  to  a  lot  of  loaf- 
ers who  never  done  a  thing  but  talk.  Fools !" 

Babington  sipped  his  toddy  and  moralized. 

"It's  always  easy  to  throw  stones  at  the  great 
men  who  do  things.  The  great  things  would  never 
get  done  if  every  one's  so-called  rights  were  care- 
fully weighed.  Along  comes  some  ruthless  man 
with  his  work  in  the  world  to  do,  and  a  lot  of  little 
fellows  get  smashed  while  he's  at  it.  He  has  to 
step  on  them  right  and  left;  but  when  it's  all  over 
cities  spring  into  existence,  the  wilderness  blossoms 
like  a  rose,  and  the  whole  country  is  benefited." 

She  looked  at  him  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  lawyer,"  she  said,  "or 
a  preacher.  There's  nothing  you  can't  make  sound 
all  right.  That's  how  you  buncoed  me  out  of  all 
that  money  last  spring.  Why  don't  you  get  mar- 
ried?" 

The  question  was  launched  at  him  so  suddenly 
that  he  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  thought  of  the 
soft,  imaginative,  religious  girl  to  whom  he  had 
once  been  engaged  and  from  whom  he  had  fled  away 
in  a  mood  of  worldly  cowardice.  Afterward  she  be- 
came the  wife  of  a  floor-walker  in  a  dry-goods  store. 
Where  would  he  have  been  now,  if  he  had  tied  that 


164  THE   TORCH 

millstone  about  his  neck  ?  At  the  very  bottom  of  the 
social  sea,  instead  of  on  the  top.  How  hopelessly 
he  would  have  looked  at  women  like  Mrs.  Van  Sant 
after  making  such  a  marriage !  But  now  everything 
was  possible. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  ?"  she  insisted,  leaning  for- 
ward eagerly. 

"I  can't  afford  it,"  he  said,  with  that  flattered 
self-importance  which  such  a  question  usually 
arouses  in  the  breast  of  a  bachelor.  She  laughed 
unmelodiously. 

"Then  you'd  better  marry  some  one  who  can," 
she  suggested. 

"That's  a  very  good  idea,"  he  returned.  "I'll 
think  it  over.  You've  certainly  redeemed  your 
promise  to-day  in  the  matter  of  good  advice.  But 
it's  getting  late.  I  must  really  be  going." 

As  she  rose  in  the  dusk  to  bid  him  good  by  she 
seemed  to  stumble  against  him.  He  put  out  his 
hand  to  support  her  and  was  met  Dy  an  answering 
clutch.  He  still  heard  her  curious  little  hysterical 
laugh  in  his  ears  as  he  galloped  rapidly  along  the 
darkened  road  toward  Argos. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    CHARM    THAT    FAILED 

It  was  the  night  of  the  president's  housewarm- 
ing,  and  his  mansion  on  the  hill  was  all  alight.  The 
lamps  of  carriages  and  automobiles  shone  along  the 
curb  for  a  block  down  the  street.  The  house  was 
on  a  level  with  the  clock  of  the  library  tower,  which 
glowed  in  the  distance  like  a  full  and  milk-white 
moon.  The  other  university  buildings  were  merged 
in  the  blackness  of  the  earth.  The  streets  of  Argos 
seemed  a  luminous  spider's  web,  its  ends  pegged  out 
in  the  prairies.  Beyond  a  broad  belt  of  darkness 
the  capital  glimmered  against  the  horizon,  and  in 
that  dim  glow  the  dome  of  the  state  house,  ribbed 
with  electric  lights,  hovered  like  a  cone  of  fire. 

A  strangely  heterogeneous  crowd  streamed  up 
the  stone  steps,  passed  between  the  imposing  pillars, 
through  the  great  door,  billowed  about  the  tall  form 
of  the  host,  then  eddied  away  through  corridors  and 
rooms  on  tours  of  inspection.  From  behind  a  bar- 
rier of  palms  in  the  hall  strains  of  music  floated  out, 
but  the  loudest  crescendo  could  not  entirely  drown 
the  continuous  hum  of  voices  and  the  shuffling  of 
many  feet. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  prolonged  her  summer  outing 
165 


1 66  THE   TORCH 

from  sheer  coquetry,  and  now  appeared  suddenly 
before  the  president  like  that  "vision  of  delight"  of 
which  the  poet  sang.  As  she  saw  his  start,  his  look 
of  embarrassed  admiration,  she  was  triumphantly 
conscious  of  the  extent  of  her  power.  He  seemed 
reluctant  to  relinquish  the  slender  fingers  that 
slipped  coolly  from  his  own;  he  could  not  remove 
his  eyes  from  her  radiant  face  and  the  white  shoul- 
ders that  gleamed  beneath  the  network  of  her  black 
lace  gown.  He  remembered  her  as  she  had  ap- 
peared in  the  pleasant  gloom  of  her  drawing-room, 
a  girlish  figure  clad  in  white,  with  a  belt  and  collar 
of  pink,  her  lovely  arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  a  per- 
sonification of  holiday  and  mirth. 

Now  she  had  become  suddenly  inaccessible.  Her 
eyes  challenged  and  defied  him  in  the  same  glance, 
and  he  almost  stammered  his  greetings. 

"And  your  relatives  on  Alcatraz  Island,"  he  ven- 
tured. "Did  you  leave  them  quite  well?" 

The  crowd  was  close  about  them  and  their  every 
word  could  be  heard  by  others.  She  shared  his  en- 
joyment of  the  hidden  meaning  of  his  inquiry, 
known  to  them  alone. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  smiling 
and  arranging  with  a  deft  touch  the  tortoise-shell 
comb  that  nestled  in  her  hair. 

He  loved  the  coquetry  that  impelled  her  to  show 
her  little  hand  and  fair  arm  in  that  quick  and  grace- 
ful motion,  and  his  manner  relaxed. 

"You  must  have  found  California  unusually 
pleasant,"  he  suggested. 

"I   never  enjoyed  myself  more,"   she   declared. 


THE    CHARM    THAT    FAILED       167 

"What  with  cruising  about  the  bay,  and  a  stage 
drive  in  the  Yosemite,  and  theater  parties  in  San 
Francisco,  I  didn't  have  time  for  anything  else, 
even  for  my  correspondence." 

"Your  friends  will  forgive  you,  I'm  sure,"  he 
said,  breaking  into  a  pleased  smile  at  her  veiled 
apology.  But  the  brilliancy  of  her  life  filled  him 
with  vague  discontent,  and  removed  her  from  him 
again.  A  life  devoted  to  pleasure  was  infinitely  al- 
luring to  him,  and  he  inhaled  the  atmosphere  she 
suggested  with  wistful  appreciation.  She  seemed 
very  much  the  aristocrat.  He  thought  of  Mrs.  Tup- 
per.  His  intimacies  with  her,  his  flatteries,  his  tod- 
dies, were  so  many  invisible  cords  binding  him  to 
her  vulgar  existence  and  making  Mrs.  Van  Sant  a 
superior  being  of  another  world. 

"Poor  Robert  has  been  quite  forlorn,"  she  said, 
"without  any  one  to  keep  house  for  him.  I'm  going 
to  devote  myself  to  him  the  rest  of  the  winter  to 
make  amends.  You  must  come  to  see  us  when  you 
get  time."  She  made  way  for  others,  and  con- 
versed a  few  moments  with  his  sister,  leaving 
him  to  come  back  to  his  present  duties  as  best  he 
could. 

Professor  Lee  paused  in  his  aimless  wandering 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  back  of  a  girlish  figure 
standing  alone  in  a  bow  window  that  commanded  a 
view  of  the  capital.  Miss  Hathaway  had  elected 
his  course  on  the  Nineteenth  Century  Poets,  but  as 
yet  he  had  scarcely  exchanged  a  word  with  her,  for 
it  was  a  course  in  which  he  did  most  of  the  talking. 
He  always  listened  for  her  response  at  roll  call, 


1 68  THE   TORCH 

thinking  her  voice  as  sweet  and  peculiar  as  her  per- 
sonality, and  there  was  no  turn  of  her  head  with 
which  he  was  not  already  familiar.  The  same 
glamour  that  her  near  presence  had  cast  on  him 
at  the  reception  of  the  women  students  returned 
whenever  he  looked  upon  her.  He  stepped  up  to 
her  quietly,  adjusting  his  glasses  as  he  did  so,  that 
he  might  not  miss  a  single  curve  or  a  single  expres- 
sion of  her  face.  She  possessed  for  him  the  elusive 
fascination  of  a  beautiful  picture. 

"Miss  Hathaway,"  he  said,  "you  evidently  prefer 
nature  to  your  fellow  men,  and  I  can't  blame  you  on 
a  night  like  this." 

As  she  turned,  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  was 
like  a  sudden  flash  of  light  into  his  own.  He  saw 
the  violet  tinge  about  the  vivid  brown  of  the  iris, 
the  long  sweep  of  her  blue-black  lashes,  the  delicate, 
clear  curve  of  her  brows. 

"It's  like  a  poem,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  with  a  quick, 
startled  smile.  "I  had  forgotten  where  I  was." 

"You  must  write  a  poem  about  it,"  he  suggested. 
"Don't  tell  me  you  never  write  poetry,  for  I  know 
you  do.  Every  young  person  of  sensibility  writes 
verses." 

He  stood  regarding  her  with  a  quizzical  smile, 
in  which  admiration  of  her  beauty  contended  with  a 
subtile  scornfulness.  He  had  decided  within  him- 
self that  beauty  was  all  she  possessed,  and  perhaps 
he  resented  its  power  to  disturb  his  peace.  She 
would  be  just  the  wife  for  Trumbull,  he  reflected, 
good,  stupid,  lovely,  and  not  intellectually  assertive. 
If  the  archaeologist  did  not  admire  a  brilliant 


THE   CHARM    THAT    FAILED       169 

woman  like  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  this  girl  must  be  his 
ideal. 

"Silence  gives  consent,"  he  continued.  "I  knew 
you  wrote  verses.  I  used  to  write  poetry  myself  at 
your  age, — epics,  lyrics,  sonnets.  I  was  full  of  sus- 
pirations  and  aspirations.  I  loved  the  stars,  I  loved 
to  be  alone,  I  loved  my. own  divine  discontent. 
Don't  tell  me  you  weren't  thinking  of  a  simile  for 
that  state  house  dome,  for  I  shall  distrust  my  pow- 
ers of  divination  if  you  do." 

She  looked  at  him  across  the  gulf  of  authority 
and  position.  He  was  her  professor,  and  she  did 
not  think  of  him  as  a  young  man.  He  had  discov- 
ered her  -secret  and  thought  her  a  fool.  She  stood 
confused,  as  one  caught  in  wrong-doing,  and  did  not 
resent  his  cruelty. 

"All  the  girls  write  poetry,"  she  stammered. 

"Of  course  they  do,"  he  returned,  highly  de- 
lighted with  her  naive  defense,  "and  a  very  good 
thing  it  is  for  them,  too.  It  teaches  them  discrim- 
ination in  the  choice  of  words,  and  it  teaches  them 
to  appreciate  the  works  of  the  masters." 

He  did  not  suppose  her  conversation  could  be  in- 
teresting and  made  no  effort  to  draw  her  out.  He 
preferred  to  do  the  talking  himself  and  to  watch 
the  play  of  color  in  her  face. 

"That  very  dome  was  the  rock  on  which  my  own 
poetical  hopes  foundered,  so  I  must  warn  you 
against  it.  There  isn't  a  bit  of  poetry  in  the  sub- 
ject. It  looks  exactly  like  a  gold  thimble  or  a 
diminutive  beehive  from  this  distance,  and  no 
amount  of  imagination  can  make  it  look  otherwise. 


170  THE   TORCH 

Then,  too,  think  of  those  law-making  bees  that  go 
buzzing  about  beneath  it  and  stinging  each  other 
with  their  sharp  tongues.  There's  no  poetry  in  them 
either.  I  am  giving  you  the  advice  of  a  friend  when 
I  urge  you  to  give  it  up  as  a  bad  job." 

He  suddenly  wished  he  had  not  carried  his  ban- 
ter so  far,  for  she  took  -him  too  seriously,  and  he 
guessed  that  his  words  hurt.  He  saw  that  she  lis- 
tened to  him  as  to  her  professor  and  felt  a  momen- 
tary pang.  Did  she  think  him  an  old  pedant  ?  Did 
his  professorship  and  his  thirty-three  years  remove 
him  from  her  understanding  and  liking?  He 
wished  she  would  regard  him  as  a  young  man  and 
fling  him  a  retort.  It  was  his  own  fault,  he  told 
himself.  He  had  driven  the  natural  girl  back  into 
the  recesses  of  her  innocent  heart  by  a  flippant  cyn- 
icism that  was  not  sincere. 

"Don't  let  me  destroy  your  illusions,"  he  said 
kindly,  "and  please  do  write  a  poem  on  the  state 
house  dome." 

"How  can  I  get  up  there  to  write  it?"  she  asked 
with  a  quick  smile. 

Something  in  the  manner  in  which  she  flashed 
this  unexpected  question  at  him  opened  his  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  she  was  not  as  much  impressed  and 
overpowered  as  he  had  thought.  So  there  was  a 
sparkle  within  that  placid  pool,  after  all. 

"Fly  up  on  the  back  of  Pegasus,"  he  advised  her, 
laughing.  He  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant  in 
the  crowd.  "Good  by,"  he  said,  rather  abruptly. 
"Don't  forget  the  poem." 


THE   CHARM    THAT    FAILED       171 

The  confusion  had  now  reached  its  height.  Peo- 
ple were  wedged  together  in  masses,  and  the  buzz  of 
conversation  swelled  into  a  strident  volume  of 
sound.  Familiar  faces  were  seen  and  lost  in  a  mo- 
ment. Even  as  he  stepped  forward,  Mrs.  Van 
Sant's  bright  head  was  replaced  by  Everett's  genial 
countenance,  and  she  was.  gone.  He  saw  Professor 
Fyffe  straining  upward,  his  face  purple,  shouting 
into  the  ear  of  a  gigantic  football  player.  Profes- 
sor George  Robison  Stuart  passed  by,  straight  and 
elegant,  proud  of  his  red  beard,  of  his  very  ugliness, 
of  his  general  superiority  to  the  rest  of  mankind. 
It  was  all  like  the  changing  combinations  of  a 
kaleidoscope.  A  lane  suddenly  opening  in  the  mass 
disclosed  Mrs.  Tupper  bearing  down  on  the  pres- 
ident. 

For  one  brief  moment  a  comparative  hush  fell 
upon  the  room,  pierced  only  by  the  voice  of  Pro- 
fessor Fyffe. 

"We'll  beat  them  to  a  standstill !" 

Fyffe  turned  in  confusion  at  the  laughter  that 
greeted  his  declaration,  but  in  another  moment  he 
was  once  more  inconspicuous.  The  lane  was  closed, 
the  conversation  swelled  again  into  a  deafening 
din,  and  the  tide  set  slowly  toward  the  president 
and  his  latest  guest.  In  his  search  for  Susanne, 
Lee  ran  up  against  Trumbull. 

"George,"  he  said,  "I've  found  just  the  girl  you 
need  for  a  wife.  She  will  never  make  you  doubt 
your  omniscience  as  Mrs.  Van  Sant  does.  There 
she  is,  over  by  the  window." 


172  THE   TORCH 

"Oh,  I  know  Miss  Hathaway,"  Trumbull  replied. 
"She  is  one  of  my  star  students  in  Greek  archaeol- 

ogy." 

Lee  watched  him  saunter  over  to  the  window  and 
talk  to  the  girl  with  unusual  animation.  He  was 
surprised  that  she  took  his  course,  and  was  some- 
how not  entirely  pleased.  She  seemed  very  much  at 
ease  with  him,  he  thought,  and  he  saw  her  smile  as 
she  took  a  coin  from  his  hand  and  held  it  up  to  the 
light.  A  group  of  people  shut  them  .from  his  view, 
and  he  turned  to  resume  his  search. 

He  was  passing  through  the  hall  on  his  way  to 
the  dining-room  when  he  found  Mrs.  Van  Sant 
talking  with  Mrs.  Everett. 

"You're  not  going  already?"  he  asked  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Some  one  must  make  a  beginning,"  she  replied, 
gathering  her  wrap  more  closely  about  her  throat. 
"It  isn't  so  early,  andj'm  tired  to-night." 

"I  find  myself  in  the  same,  condition,"  he  said. 
"Be  a  good  Samaritan  and  give  me  a  lift." 

She  smiled  her  assent,  and  he  went  to  get  his  hat 
and  coat.  When  he  returned  the  two  women  were 
still  in  earnest  conversation. 

"Horrid  old  woman,"  he  heard  Mrs.  Van  Sant 
remark. 

"Ridiculous,"  Mrs.  Everett  added. 

"What  horrid  and  ridiculous  woman  were  you 
discussing?"  he  asked  Susanne,  when  they  were 
alone  in  the  carriage. 

"You  shouldn't  have  been  eavesdropping,"  she 
gently  reproved. 


THE   CHARM   THAT   FAILED       173 

"That  description  fits  only  the  fairy  godmother  of 
the  university,"  he  chuckled,  "but  I'm  sorry  to  hear 
you  speak  evil  of  dignities.  I  thought  her  long 
feather  most  becoming.  I  didn't  go  up  to  pay  my 
respects  for  fear  she  would  call  me  names." 

"You  never  saw  anything  like  it !"  she  broke  out. 
"That  vulgar  old  woman  actually  backed  into  Mr. 
Babington's  sister  and  pushed  her  from  his  side. 
You  would  have  thought  she  owned  the  house.  She 
stood  there  receiving  his  guests  and  tapping  him  on 
the  arm  with  her  fan,  and  telling  him  he  ought  to 
have  a  wife.  I  believe  she's  in  love  with  him." 

"One  can't  blame  her  for  that,"  he  returned. 
"Fyffe  says  he's  the  handsomest  man  in  Argos." 

He  was  not  displeased  to  think  that  Mrs.  Tupper 
had  put  the  president  in  an  absurd  position  before 
Susanne. 

"I  never  knew  you  to  take  old  Kate  quite  so  seri- 
ously before,"  he  added. 

"I  didn't  think  people  could  make  such  fools  of 
themselves  over  Lemuel  Tupper's  housekeeper,"  she 
answered.  "It  makes  one  wonder  whether  there  are 
any  gentlefolk  left  in  the  world." 

The  remark  was  not  altogether  ingenuous.  It 
was  not  so  much  the  vulgarity  of  the  worshipers 
at  the  shrine  of  Mammon  that  aroused  her  scorn  as 
old  Kate's  evident  infatuation  with  the  president. 
Until  this  night  she  had  taken  a  secret  satisfaction 
in  Mrs.  Tupper's  donations.  She  was  not  sorry  to 
see  the  old  miser  part  with  some  of  her  money  to  the 
advancement  of  Babington's  prestige  and  power, 


174  THE   TORCH 

but  now  she  resented  her  impudent  airs  and  the 
amused  gossip  of  the  university. 

"Only  you  and  I  are  left,  Susanne,"  he  said,  "who 
have  not  yet  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal." 

She  scarcely  noticed  that  he  addressed  her  by  her 
first  name.  It  was  a  habit  to  which  they  still  re- 
turned at  times  when  alone.  Only  when  they  had 
entered  her  drawing-room  did  her  instinct  warn  her 
of  impending  possibilities. 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  by  the  fire,  while 
he  stood  with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel,  looking  down 
on  her.  His  appreciative  eyes  lingered  on  each 
detail, — the  silver  buckles  on  her  dainty,  high-heeled 
shoes,  the  glimmer  of  her  arms  beneath  the  network 
of  her  black  lace  sleeves,  the  circlet  of  milk-white 
pearls  about  her  fair  throat,  and  the  combs  that 
scarce  restrained  the  exuberant  glory  of  her  hair. 
Above  all,  the  suppressed  excitement  and  brilliancy 
of  her  face  stirred  his  pulses  with  desire. 

"I  never  saw  you  looking  as  lovely  as  you  do  to- 
night, Susanne,"  he  declared  earnestly.  She 
thought  that  she  had  never  seen  him  look  more  dis- 
tinguished. He  was  like  a  portrait  of  a  young  aris- 
tocrat of  a  former  generation,  graceful  in  spite  of 
his  lank  figure,  careless  and  scornful  of  the  opinion 
of  the  mob. 

"If  I  were  minded  to  bandy  compliments  with 
you,  Nicholas,"  she  returned  with  a  smile,  "I  might 
say  something  nice  about  you,  but  I  think  you  are 
spoiled  enough  as  it  is.  I  wish  you  would  play 
something  for  me.  I  was  never  more  in  need  of 
music  in  my  life." 


THE    CHARM    THAT    FAILED       175 

He  sauntered  over  to  the  piano  obediently,  and 
began  to  strike  a  few  rich  chords. 

"A  new  idea  of  my  own,"  he  explained  over  his 
shoulder,  "to  express  the  hours  of  the  day  and  night. 
This  is  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Can't  you  see 
the  shadows  falling?" 

He  went  on,  weaving  his  spell  about  her,  the 
chords  deepening  into  a  minor  to  tell  the  dead  of 
night,  and  gradually  lightening  as  the  dawn  drew 
near.  "This  is  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  he  "went 
on.  "Do  you  hear  the  birds  in  the  trees?  And 
now,  at  six,  you  fall  asleep  again.  This  is  seven, 
the  breakfast  bell."  He  banged  out  a  jocund  air 
and  then  whirled  round  upon  her,  smiling  tri- 
umphantly. She  was  standing  by  his  side,  softened 
and  charmed,  the  light  of  dreams  in  her  eyes. 

"You're  a  wizard,  Nicholas!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
don't  see  how  you  do  it.  You  must  write  them  out 
for  me,  you  really  must.  Now,  don't  forget.  You 
are  always  so  perverse.  You  don't  care  anything 
about  your  music,  and  never  write  it  down.  To- 
morrow you'll  forget  all  about  it." 

"No,  I  shan't,  not  this  time.  But  your  little 
hands  could  never  strike  those  chords.  Try  it  and 
see." 

He  gave  her  his  place  and  she  sat  down,  protest- 
ing that  he  had  made  them  impossible  in  order  to 
tease  her. 

"You  can't  stretch  an  octave  and  two,"  he  said, 
bending  over  her  and  placing  his  right  hand  upon 
her  own.  "There,  that's  the  way.  You  ought  to 
have  my  long  antennae." 


176  THE   TORCH 

"You've  made  that  comparison  before,"  she  cried 
with  a  little  shiver,  "and  it  always  makes  me  think 
of  some  horrid,  crawling  thing."  She  tried  to  with- 
draw her  hand,  but  he  held  it  fast. 

"Susanne,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice, 
"Susanne." 

She  felt  his  kiss  on  her  neck,  and  rose  to  her 
feet.  They  stood  for  a  few  moments  facing  each 
other,  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"It  was  unfair  of  you,"  she  protested,  her  face 
crimson. 

"Unfair?"  he  echoed.  He  longed  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  but  she  freed  her  hands  with  unexpected 
strength  and  pushed  him  slowly  backward,  laughing 
up  at  him  with  the  old  mischievous  domination  in 
her  eyes. 

"Now  sit  down,  do,"  she  commanded,  "and  let 
us  talk." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  talk,  Susanne.  I  want  to 
kiss  you.  I  love  you." 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  talk  about,"  she  an- 
swered. "Please  be  sensible." 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  she  seated  herself  near 
him,  her  ringers  crossed  lightly  over  her  knee.  He 
looked  at  her  feverishly,  at  those  little  hands  that 
always  filled  him  with  peculiar  tenderness  and 
amusement  because  she  could  not  play  Beethoven 
with  them,  at  the  deep  emotion  of  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"Why  did  you  come  over  to  the  piano?"  he  de- 
manded indignantly.  "You  knew  what  I  would  do 
if  you  came." 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  she  murmured. 


THE   CHARM    THAT    FAILED       177 

"Then  why  did  you  come?"  he  asked  fiercely. 

"Because  you  hypnotized  me  with  those  chords, 
and  because  I  wanted  to  have  it  out  with  you." 

"Because  you're  a  coquette,"  he  retorted  bitterly. 

"I  refuse  to  quarrel  with  you,"  she  said.  She 
went  over  to  the  little  tea  table  and  brought  back  a 
package  of  cigarettes.  "And  I  refuse  to  discuss  the 
question  further,"  she  added,  "unless  you  smoke." 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  ruefully,  with  a  feeling 
that  he  had  lost. 

"I  can't  be  angry  with  you,"  he  groaned.  "Every- 
thing you  do  only  makes  me  worship  you  more. 
And  you've  treated  me  abominably.  You  knew  all 
the  time  I  loved  you." 

"I  knew  you  thought  you  did,"  she  corrected, 
"but  you  were  mistaken.  I  wanted  you  to  find  that 
out." 

"I  never  shall  find  it  out,"  he  declared  rebellious- 
ly.  "I've  loved  you  ever  since  you  used  to  sit  on 
the  fence,  a  little  girl,  and  eat  the  cherries  I  risked 
my  neck  to  bring  you." 

"We  were  such  good  chums  then,"  she  mused, 
"weren't  we?  And  that's  all  we  are  now,  or  ever 
ought  to  be.  If  we  were  married  we  should  suc- 
ceed in  making  each  other  very  unhappy." 

"I  don't  see  it,"  he  persisted.  "Isn't  it  unfair 
that  I  should  lose  you  just  because  I've  known  you 
from  childhood?" 

"Nicholas,"  she  returned,  "you  always  could 
beat  me  in  a  downright  argument.  Don't  you  re- 
member the  time  in  the  high  school  that  you  won  a 


1 78  THE    TORCH 

debate  from  me  before  the  class  ?  I  shall  never  for- 
get my  mortification." 

She  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  peered  out 
at  him  deliciously.  He  smiled  wistfully  at  the  re- 
membrance. 

"It  was  a  Pyrrhic  victory  for  me.  I  could  have 
cut  my  tongue  out  for  it  afterward." 

"And  you  tried  to  make  amends  by  writing  a 
poem  to  me,"  she  went  on.  "I  was  very  proud  of 
that  poem.  I  believe  I  could  repeat  it  now.  It  was 
reminiscent  of  Dobson,  and  every  verse  ended  with 
a  refrain — ma  belle  Susanne." 

She  laughed  until  she  was  forced  to  put  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  and  he  could  not  resist  her 
merriment. 

"How  many  times  have  you  made  a  fool  of  me?" 
he  asked,  crestfallen.  She  removed  her  handker- 
chief and  looked  at  him  frankly. 

"Often,"  she  admitted,  "but  I  never  will  again. 
I've  really  treated  you  abominably,  as  you  said,  but 
I  never  will  any  more.  And  you  musn't  tempt  me 
by  being  sentimental.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

He  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  fire  and  rose  im- 
petuously to  his  feet. 

"No,  it  isn't  a  bargain,"  he  declared. 

"Your  pride  won't  allow  you  to  admit  your  mis- 
take," she  said,  rising  in  turn,  "at  least,  not  yet. 
You're  so  spoiled  that  you  can't  bear  to  be  disap- 
pointed in  a  single  whim.  Don't  I  know  you  ?  But 
you  won't  be  nearly  so  unhappy  to-morrow  morning 
as  you  think  you  will." 

He  shook  his  head  stubbornly. 


THE   CHARM   THAT    FAILED       179 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said  demurely.  "You  can't  get 
tragic  over  it."  She  was  struck  by  something  bonny 
and  youthful  in  his  distress,  and  felt  that  she  had 
never  been  more  fond  of  him  in  her  life.  "I  shall 
always  be  just  your  belle  Susanne,"  she  added  im- 
pulsively, holding  out  both  her  hands,  "just  a  fit 
subject  for  a  verse  in  lighter  vein,  and  your  best 
friend  always." 

He  pressed  her  hands  to  his  lips,  first  one  and 
then  the  other. 

"Dear  little  witch,"  he  murmured.  "I'll  never 
give  you  up,  never." 

When  he  was  gone  she  set  herself  the  task  of  dis- 
covering why  she  had  done  as  she  did,  but  her  mind 
was  too  weary  for  analysis.  It  was  enough  for  her 
that  she  knew  that  she  was  right,  and  she  went 
slowly  upstairs,  smiling  to  herself. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  because  he  could  not 
dominate  her,  could  not  sweep  her  off  her  feet. 
Worldly  and  vain  as  she  was,  she  loved  the  heroic 
in  men.  There  was  no  one  whom  she  thought  more 
charming  than  Nicholas  Lee,  but  as  yet  she  felt  in 
him  no  wealth  of  passion  and  romance  and  lofty 
aim. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

AT   THE   PLAY 

"Bobby,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  "what  do  you 
think  of  Mr.  Babington  ?" 

"The  president?"  It  was  significant  that  he  used 
the  title,  for  to  him  the  position  was  always  more 
than  the  man.  "The  students  of  the  university  like 
him  first  rate." 

"But  what  do  you  think?"  she  persisted.  "You 
do  use  your  mind  sometimes,  don't  you?" 

Even  this  thrust  could  not  break  down  the  bar- 
rier of  his  politeness. 

"Sometimes,"  he  answered  stiffly,  "but  not  in  this 
case." 

It  was  unnecessary  for  him  to  tell  her  that  he 
resented,  for  the  sake  of  his  father's  memory,  her 
apparent  appreciation  of  Babington's  society.  She 
understood  that  well  enough,  but  she  wished  for 
an  expression  of  opinion  about  the  president  per- 
sonally, not  as  a  possible  successor  to  Colonel  Van 
Sant,  but  as  a  man. 

"It  serves  me  right,"  she  told  herself,  after  he 
was  gone.  "This  is  the  result  of  proximity.  If 
I  lived  in  the  same  house  with  a  tabby  cat  I  should 
get  into  the  way  of  asking  it  idiotic  questions." 

1 80 


AT   THE   PLAY  181 

She  was  not  in  an  amiable  frame  of  mind  with 
Robert,  or  with  any  one  else,  including  herself. 
On  the  previous  Saturday  she  had  attended  a  meet- 
ing in  the  gymnasium.  She  had  looked  down  with 
Mrs.  Everett  from  the  gallery  and  watched  the 
long  lines  of  students  filing  in,  obedient  to  the  presi- 
dent's summons.  She  had  listened  to  Babington's 
speech,  in  which  he  said  that  this  was  to  be  the 
first  of  a  series  of  meetings  at  which  the  members 
of  the  university  were  to  look  into  each  other's  faces 
and  see  how  many  they  were,  and  how  in  earnest 
they  were.  The  purpose  of  the  series  was  to  foster 
esprit  de  corps;  these  were  to  be  "religious  meet- 
ings." Mrs.  Tupper's  name  was  used  once  more  to 
conjure  forth  applause.  Finally  Professor  Everett 
had  made  an  address,  in  which  he  declared  in  va- 
rious ways  that  a  big  university  was  one  thing  and 
a  great  university  quite  another.  The  whole  pro- 
ceeding had  seemed  to  Mrs.  Van  Sant  wonderfully 
platitudinous,  and  she  was  subtly  scornful  of  every- 
body concerned  in  it,  even  of  its  originator.  He 
did  not  appeal  to  her  in  the  role  of  presiding  elder. 

It  was  in  regard  to  the  student  opinion  con- 
cerning this  and  other  things  that  she  had  intended 
to  sound  Robert.  Now  she  relieved  her  irritation 
by  rolling  the  chairs  hither  and  thither  with  a 
vengeful  force.  It  afforded  her  satisfaction  to 
seize  something  and  give  it  a  hard  push.  She 
would  like  to  serve  Robert  thus,  but  she  felt  that 
he  would  fall  over  stiffly,  like  a  ninepin,  and  break 
his  neck. 

"For  I  know  he's  brittle,"  she  remarked,  cheered 


1 82  THE   TORCH 

by  the  conceit.  "They're  all  a  good  deal  like  nine- 
pins, or,  rather,  like  chessmen."  "They"  were  the 
members  of  the  faculty,  for  her  mind  had  gone 
back  to  university  affairs.  "Mr.  Babington  tells 
Fyffe  to  make  a  funny  speech  and  he  makes  it;  he 
tells  good,  stupid  Mr.  Everett  to  make  a  moral 
speech,  and  he  makes  it,  though,  goodness  knows, 
he  means  every  word  of  it.  It's  a  little  tiresome 
sitting  one  side  and  watching  the  game  played  by 
others.  It  must  be  fun  moving  live  chessmen. 
Mr.  Everett  is  like  the  castle ;  he  must  move  straight 
ahead.  Fyffe  is  the  knight,  zigzagging  on  the 
board  as  suits  his  own  interests.  The  students  are 
the  pawns." 

She  was  rearranging  the  statuettes  on  the  mantel 
now,  and  as  she  caught  a  reflection  of  herself  in 
the  mirror  she  addressed  it  mockingly : 

"And  you  could  be  the  queen  if  you  wished,  and 
go  careering  all  over  the  board,  backward  and  for- 
ward and  sidewise,  protecting  your  liege  lord,  the 
king.  He  isn't  very  bright  and  can  move  only  one 
square  at  a  time.  If  you  married  him  you  would 
have  something  more  interesting  to  do  than  push- 
ing furniture  about." 

It  seemed  natural  that  the  maid  should  bring  her 
a  letter  at  that  very  moment  from  the  president. 
"We  don't  have  a  chance  to  see  Mansfield  out  here 
often,"  it  ran.  "I  have  just  telephoned  over  to  the 
capital  and  secured  a  box.  May  my  sister  and  I 
have  the  pleasue  of  taking  you  to  see  Doctor  Jekyll 
and  Mr.  Hyde  to-night?  We  would  dine  at  the 


AT   THE   PLAY  183 

Blue  Buffalo,  in  order  to  be  in  time.  The  boy  will 
wait  for  an  answer." 

She  went  to  her  writing  desk  and  penned  an  ac- 
ceptance. It  was  just  the  play  she  wanted  to  see, 
and  she  had  already  decided  that  she  would  almost 
be  willing  to  pay  the  price  of  Robert's  company. 
But  this  was  preferable.  She  had  never  been  out 
with  the  president  before.  This  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  little  party  of  which  she  was  only  one. 
Besides,  what  if  people  did  talk?  They  were  talk- 
ing already,  and  if  they  enjoyed  it  she  had  no  ob- 
jection. 

Nevertheless,  when  she  sat  down  at  dinner  that 
evening  with  the  president  and  his  sister,  wearing 
the  roses  he  had  sent  her,  she  was  not  altogether  at 
her  ease.  She  was  only  one  of  a  little  party,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  was  decidedly  a  family  party.  The 
Blue  Buffalo  was  a  popular  resort  for  the  univer- 
sity people  who  went  to  the  theater  in  the  capital. 
There  was  Mrs.  Everett  opposite,  whispering  to  the 
professor  across  the  table.  He  turned  upon  her 
the  searchlight  of  his  big  spectacles,  and  she  could 
see  his  face  beam  with  kindly  interest  as  he  bowed. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  what  his  wife  had  said,  or 
implied.  And  there  were  the  Stuarts,  whom  she 
did  not  like.  She  saw  the  professor's  red  beard 
wagging  and  was  sure  that  he  was  sharpening  his 
wit  upon  her. 

Farther  down  the  room  she  saw  Lee  and  Trum- 
bull  laughing  over  their  claret.  Trumbull's  back 
was  turned,  but  Lee  caught  her  eye  and  smiled 


184  THE   TORCH 

blandly.  He  was  not  a  man  to  wear  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve,  but,  even  so,  she  thought  he  was  bearing 
his  disappointment  very  well. 

"Have  you  read  Professor  Lee's  book?"  she 
asked  Miss  Babington,  more  to  make  conversation 
than  because  she  supposed  the  president's  sister  was 
interested  in  literature. 

"Dear,  no,"  Miss  Babington  answered  quickly, 
as  if  a  sin  of  omission  had  suddenly  come  home  to 
roost.  "I  never  read  heavy  books,  though  Henry 
often  tells  me  I  ought  to." 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  smiled  at  the  thought  of  heaviness 
in  connection  with  Nicholas  Lee. 

"It's  most  interesting,  I  assure  you,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it?"  Babington  asked.  "Something 
new?" 

"Oh,  no.  It  came  out  about  two  years  ago,  and 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  think  of  it  just  now, 
unless  it  be  that  that  I  saw  him  sitting  over  there. 
It's  an  indescribable  sort  of  book.  It  claims  to  be 
in  the  nature  of  a  defense  of  modern  American 
literature,  but  in  reality  it  is  the  most  delicious 
satire.  I  sometimes  think  that  if  Mr.  Lee  would 
take  himself  more  seriously  he  could  do  something 
exceptional,  but  his  love  of  delicate  satire  is  too 
strong.  I'm  afraid,  after  all,  his  is  the  critical, 
rather  than  the  creative,  genius." 

"Not  a  bad  attitude  of  mind  in  a  university  pro- 
fessor," Babington  commented.  "There's  too 
much  log-rolling,  too  much  indiscriminate  praise, 
in  our  modern  reviews.  We  owe  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude to  a  fearless  critic." 


AT   THE   PLAY  185 

He  twisted  about  in  his  chair  and  brought  his 
bulgent  eyes  to  bear  upon  Lee.  He  bowed  and 
smiled  with  deliberate  cordiality,  and  then  turned 
once  more  to  his  guest. 

"Professor  Lee  is  a  rising  young  man.  I  saw 
that  last  year,  and  gave  him  an  increase  in  salary." 

The  questioning  impulse  in  Mrs.  Van  Sant  was 
alert  that  night.  The  president's  comment  on 
Lee  was  appreciative,  but  she  divined  the  effort 
and  deliberate  intention.  She  had  seen  his  atti- 
tude toward  her  friend  change  from  indifference 
to  dislike ;  and  now  it  was  one  of  forced  considera- 
tion. She  was  secretly  annoyed  at  his  air  of  patron- 
age, as  if  the  gap  between  him  and  his  subordinate 
were  great.  Moreover,  she  knew  of  Judge  Gates' 
connection  with  that  increase  in  salary,  and  Babing- 
ton's  words  came  to  her  with  a  shock  of  disillusion. 
Her  second  thought  was  more  charitable.  She 
divined  in  the  president  a  struggle  to  do  justice 
toward  one  whom  he  had  reason  to  regard  as  a  rival. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  his  ready  acquiescence  in  the 
judge's  demand  was  due  to  real  magnanimity. 

She  put  away  her  vague  dissatisfaction  and  ral- 
lied with  an  effort.  Babington  had  not  observed 
her  momentary  fluctuation  of  mood.  He  was  in 
the  best  of  spirits,  and  grew  larger  with  gratifica- 
tion at  the  situation  in  which  he  found  himself. 
His  guest  was  not  unconscious  of  this  air,  this  sug- 
gestion of  importance,  this  realization  of  the  game. 
It  had  attracted  her  attention  at  their  first  meet- 
ing. It  was  this  that  she  would  have  to  endure  if 
she  married  him.  She  had  decided  that  it  was  a 


1 86  THE   TORCH 

trick  of  heredity,  a  reminiscence  of  his  father,  the 
evangelical  exhorter.  After  all,  she  reflected,  Pro- 
fessor Plow  never  posed,  whatever  else  he  might  do 
to  cause  distress. 

The  stringed  instruments  behind  the  palms  at  the 
back  pf  the  room  struck  up  a  popular  air,  unmoral 
in  its  abandon  and  its  suggestion  of  the  twinkling 
white  feet  of  dancing  girls.  At  once  a  magic  zest 
seemed  to  be  infused  throughout  the  company. 
Every  table  was  now  full.  Waiters  hurried  to  and 
fro,  corks  popped  gaily,  and  the  conversation  rose 
at  intervals  into  ebullitions  of  laughter.  The  mu- 
sic was  a  relief  to  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  She  ceased  to 
analyze  and  began  to  enjoy. 

The  president's  private  secretary  waited  at  the 
door  of  the  theater,  and  loaded  himself  with  the 
ladies'  wraps.  The  pit  was  well  filled  when  the 
party  entered  the  proscenium  box,  and  no  constitu- 
ent of  the  university  failed  to  take  notice  of  their 
arrival.  Could  Babington  have  heard  the  com- 
ments that  were  made  behind  the  protection  of  the 
orchestral  music,  his  composure  might  have  been 
shaken. 

"Tom,"  Mrs.  Everett  whispered,  "do  look  at 
that  ridiculous  little  Watkins.  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  like  it?  Just  look  at  him  smirking  and 
bowing  and  placing  the  chairs.  He  reminds  me  of 
a  Pullman  porter." 

"He's  really  quite  a  serious  and  ambitious  young 
man,"  the  professor  replied,  distressed.  "He's 
trying  to  find  time  to  work  for  his  master's  degree. 


AT   THE   PLAY  187 

He  doesn't  want  to  keep  that  position  forever,  poor 
Watkins." 

"It's  no  satisfaction  to  gossip  with  you,"  she 
retorted,  with  the  affectionate  exasperation  he  so 
often  aroused  in  her.  "I  wish  you  were  more  com- 
panionable, Tom.  Since  Sue  Van  Sant  has  taken 
up  with  the  president  I  have  no  one  to  whom  I  can 
confide  my  best  discoveries." 

Irreverent  students  looked  down  from  the  bal- 
cony and  nudged  each  other. 

"Gad,  see  Prexy  and  his  best  girl."  "I'd  like  to 
paint  a  bleeding  heart  on  that  shirt  front."  "He's  a 
well  set  up  fellow,  though,  ain't  he?"  "They  say 
she's  got  plenty  of  dough.  He's  no  fool."  "Look 
at  Watkins.  I'm  going  to  put  him  in  the  next 
Junior  Annual  brushing  Prexy's  silk  hat.  That's 
about  his  size.  I  wouldn't  take  his  job  for  five  thou- 
sand." 

So  the  merry  game  went  on,  while  the  object  of 
it  sat  all  unconscious  of  anything  save  himself  and 
the  company  of  the  woman  of  whom  he  was  proud. 
Miss  Babington  and  the  private  secretary  had  ef- 
faced themselves  as  much  as  possible  and  now  sat  in 
the  background. 

Many  outsiders  in  the  audience  recognized  the 
president  and  commented  upon  him  respectfully. 
From  time  to  time  he  swept  the  house  with  a  meas- 
ured gaze,  bowed  to  this  one  or  that  whose  eye  he 
chanced  to  meet,  and  bent  slightly  over  Mrs.  Van 
Sant's  white  shoulder  to  whisper  something  in  her 
ear.  She  fingered  her  fan  a  little  nervously,  but 
smiled  slightly  in  reply.  Underneath  her  appar- 


1 88  THE   TORCH 

ent  unconcern  lay  a  regret  that  she  was  not  sitting 
with  Robert  or  Lee,  inconspicuous  in  the  pit. 

Suddenly  Babington  stiffened,  and  the  chair 
creaked  with  the  nervous  motion.  He  had  met 
Mrs.  Tupper's  eyes  for  one  electrical  moment,  and 
something  in  the  flash  of  their  green  light  sent  the 
blood  in  a  tumult  to  his  heart.  The  moment  was 
past,  and  neither  of  them  had  bowed.  Again  and 
again  he  tried  to  make  amends.  He  bowed  to  her 
profile  and  to  her  face  turned  three-quarters  to- 
ward him,  but  in  vain.  He  knew  well  the  fury  that 
was  raging  in  her  heart,  and  his  spirits  sank. 

The  curtain  went  up,  and  the  great  actor  began 
to  weave  his  spell  upon  the  house.  When  the 
lights  were  low  and  the  sinister  form  of  Mr.  Hyde 
came  crouching  and  writhing  across  the  stage  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  suddenly  became  conscious  of  the  pres- 
sure of  a  hand  on  her  own.  She  was  so  deeply 
absorbed  in  the  play  that  for  a  moment  she  did 
not  realize  whose  it  was,  and  then  a  wave  of  resent- 
ment flushed  her  face.  She  drew  away,  and  the 
president  did  not  repeat  the  experiment.  He  was 
quick  to  see  his  mistake,  and  during  the  remainder 
of  the  evening  he  strove  to  obliterate  the  impres- 
sion he  had  made  by  a  return  to  his  most  charm- 
ing and  impersonal  manner.  Still,  she  could  not 
forgive  him.  Did  he  suppose  she  would  sit  there 
and  allow  him  to  squeeze  her  hand,  like  a  shop-girl 
attending  the  play  with  her  beau  ? 

It  was  only  after  she  had  returned  home  that 
she  could  do  him  partial  justice  in  her  thoughts. 


AT   THE   PLAY  189 

If  he  really  loved  her,  there  was  some  excuse.  Had 
she  loved  him,  she  would  not  have  thought  a  stolen 
pressure  of  the  hand  a  vulgar  familiarity. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   MAN   IN   THE   ROAD 

The  next  day  was  the  sixth  of  November,  and  the 
voting  booth  near  the  university  gate  was  early  a 
scene  of  activity.  As  Lee  came  up  with  Professor 
Everett  they  met  Plow  at  the  one-hundred-foot 
limit.  He  put  a  hand  on  each  and  pushed  them 
back  over  the  line. 

"Hold  on,"  he  entreated,  excitement  glowing  in 
his  yellow  eyes.  "Hold  on;  I  want  to  talk  with 
you."  Lee  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  can't  stop  now:  I  must  be  in  the  class-room 
in  fifteen  minutes,  and  have  just  time  to  cast  my 
ballot.  Besides,  I'm  sure  you  would  waste  time 
talking  with  me ;  I'm  an  incorrigible  conservative." 

"Class-room !"  Plow  exclaimed,  with  a  touch  of 
scorn.  "You're  not  going  to  hold  your  classes  on 
election  day?  I  posted  a  cut  for  all  of  mine. 
There  are  more  important  things  afoot.  I  tell  you, 
Lee,  this  is  a  great  national  crisis.  But  whom  are 
you  going  to  vote  for?" 

"The  administration,  of  course,  and  so  is  Mr. 
Everett,  I  believe." 

"It's  a  choice  of  evils,  and  we've  decided  to 
choose  the  less,"  Everett  explained,  smiling  genially. 

190 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    ROAD          191 

"A  choice  of  evils!"  Plow  shouted.  "To  think 
that  right  here  in  a  university,  where  men  ought  to 
be  the  most  enlightened,  one  finds  the  greatest  ob- 
struction to  progress!  I  tell  you,  your  minds  are 
atrophied  by  the  habit  of  conservatism.  You  won't 
even  stop  to  discuss  it?"  They  were  already  mov- 
ing on,  and  he  saw  that  protest  was  useless. 
"Well,"  he  called  after  them,  with  a  sudden  gust 
of  good  humor,  "we'll  win  without  you,  and  you 
sha'n't  ride  in  the  band  wagon  with  us  afterward, 
either." 

As  they  left  the  booth  they  saw  the  president 
standing,  ballot  in  hand,  looking  fixedly  at  Plow, 
who  was  now  holding  Fyffe  by  the  arm  with  one 
hand  while  he  gesticulated  with  the  other.  Fyffe, 
flushed  and  resentful,  was  trying  to  break  away. 
Lee  pounded  his  cane  on  the  flagging  in  a  burst 
of  mirth,  but  to  Babington  the  picture  was  far  from 
amusing.  He  turned  squarely  about  and  marched 
into  the  booth,  a  dull  glow  of  anger  mounting  to  his 
eyes. 

"Did  you  see  that?"  Lee  asked  as  they  hurried 
on.  "Mark  my  words :  if  the  Democrats  are  de- 
feated Plow  will  have  to  go.  I'll  bet  Babington 
has  been  waiting  to  see  which  way  the  wind  blows. 
It  was  tempting  fate  for  Plow  to  cut  his  classes  to- 
day." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Everett.  "I've 
given  my.  evening  class  in  Cicero  a  cut  so  that 
they  can  go  over  to  the  capital  to  watch  the  elec- 
tion returns.  I  told  them  they  ought  not  to  miss 
it.  If  I  were  twenty  years  younger  I'd  go  myself." 


192  THE   TORCH 

"It  makes  a  difference  who  does  a  thing,"  Lee 
answered.  "One  man  can  steal  a  horse  with  im- 
punity, while  another  daren't  even  look  over  the 
fence.  You're  not  a  socialist,  and  you're  not  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Van  Sant" 

"I  plead  guilty  to  the  last  failing  you  mention," 
Everett  returned  with  quaint  gallantry.  "I  like  to 
be  in  the  fashion."  He  looked  at  the  younger  man 
with  a  rare  expression  of  friendly  banter. 

"Poor  Plow,"  Lee  continued,  ignoring  the  innu- 
endo. "He's  ripe  for  the  ax,  for  of  course  his 
party  will  be  defeated.  But  with  all  his  mistaken 
notions,  how  much  better  his  influence  is  than 
Fyffe's!  It's  merely  another  illustration  of  the 
fact  that  the  world  will  always  tolerate  an  orthodox 
sinner  and  stone  a  heterodox  saint.  In  his  eccen- 
tric fashion,  he  stands  for  the  best  ideals  of  the 
university,  freedom  of  thought  and  speech,  the 
Lchrfreiheit,  in  short.  It  was  that  very  ideal 
which  enabled  the  medieval  universities  to  batter 
down  priestcraft  and  superstition  and  to  bring  on 
the  Reformation." 

Everett  turned  upon  him  a  smile  that  had  a  touch 
of  weariness  in  it. 

"The  question  of  academic  freedom  goes  back 
farther  than  that,"  he  said.  "Socrates  insisted  upon 
teaching  the  truth  as  he  saw  it.  His  right  to  think 
as  he  pleased  was  unquestionable ;  his  right  to  teach 
what  was  then  heresy  was  very  doubtful.  He  un- 
dermined belief  in  the  gods,  and  what  was  the  re- 
sult? Alcibiades,  one  of  his  pupils,  learned  from 
him  to  scorn  all  authority,  even  that  of  the  state, 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    ROAD          193 

and  betrayed  his  country.  The  students  of  Socrates 
were  undoubtedly  responsible  for  the  mutilation  of 
the  statues  of  Hermes,  and  they  constituted  an  ele- 
ment of  anarchy  in  Athens  that  was  her  ultimate 
ruin.  Even  if  we  admit  that  Plow's  socialistic  ideas 
are  right,  we  can  not  be  sure  of  his  right  to  teach 
them  here  and  now.  After  all,  as  a  professor  in  a 
state  university,  he  is  an  employe  of  the  state,  and 
the  state  has  perhaps  a  right  to  demand  that  he  teach 
such  doctrines  as  will  uphold  the  existing  order  of 
things.  His  teachings,  misunderstood,  might  con- 
ceivably be  dangerous." 

"Our  American  youth  aren't  as  impressionable 
as  the  ancient  Athenians,"  Lee  returned.  "The 
students  in  Plow's  classes  don't  take  his  ipse  dixit 
as  gospel,  and  he  doesn't  demand  that  they  shall. 
Some  of  the  men  who  pass  the  highest  examina- 
tions combat  him  all  the  way  through  the  paper. 
All  he  demands  is  that  they  give  a  reason  for  their 
opinions.  I  suppose  there  is  more  intellectual  fric- 
tion in  his  courses,  more  real  thinking  done,  than 
in  any  others  in  the  university.  And  your  parallel 
seems  to  break  down  when  you  consider  that  he 
never  touches  upon  religious  questions,  as  Socrates 
did.  I  think  he  is  stimulating,  rather  than  danger- 
ous. I  am  grateful  to  him  for  furnishing  me  ma- 
terial for  some  of  my  best  jokes." 

He  uttered  the  last  sentence  lightly,  with  his 
winning  smile,  but  Professor  Everett  did  not  relish 
his  reference  to  the  intellectual  friction  in  Plow's 
courses,  as  compared  with  others.  Genial  as  he 
was  by  nature,  he  was  momentarily  antagonized  by 


194  THE    TORCH 

Lee's  half-jesting  defense.  For  once  these  two 
friends  struck  fire  from  each  other,  and  parted  al- 
most coolly.  If  Lee  seemed  a  little  bumptious  to 
Everett,  the  older  man  appeared  almost  timid  to  the 
younger.  Lee  knew  well  enough  that  Babington 
was  not  greatly  concerned  for  the  welfare  of  the 
state.  He  knew  that  it  was  snobbishness,  money- 
worship  and  jealousy  that  moved  him  to  take  the 
stand  that  Everett  was  almost  prepared  to  defend, 
or,  at  least,  to  exculpate. 

When  Babington  entered  his  office  he  closed  the 
door  carefully  behind  him. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said,  "this  is  an  important 
matter  and  I  want  you  to  manage  it  with  discre- 
tion. I  want  you  to  go  to  Professor  Plow's  lec- 
ture-room and  get  the  notice  posted  on  his  door,  if 
there  is  one.  If  you  can  do  it  without  being  ob- 
served, you  understand." 

"Perfectly,  sir,"  the  young  man  replied,  with  no 
shadow  of  guile  in  his  bright  brown  eyes.  After  a 
short  absence  he  returned  and  laid  a  crumpled  piece 
of  paper  on  the  desk. 

Babington  picked  it  up  and  read  the  simple  state- 
ment that  Professor  Plow  would  not  hold  his 
classes  that  day.  No  reason  was  assigned,  and 
there  was  no  exhortation  to  vote  for  any  particular 
candidate.  He  put  it  away  thoughtfully  in  his 
pocket  and  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  pile 
of  letters  before  him :  applications  for  positions  on 
the  faculty,  for  scholarships,  for  janitorships,  ad- 
vertisements of  books,  invitations  to  lecture. 


THE   MAN   IN   THE    ROAD         195 

All  that  day  he  felt  a  stirring  of  the  pulse  at  each 
fresh  realization  of  the  significance  to  him  of  that 
silent  battle  of  white  ballots.  If  the.  result  were 
what  he  hoped,  he  would  act.  He  would  strike  hard 
and  sure  and  be  done  with  it.  Mrs.  Tupper's  words 
came  back  to  him  again  and  again.  People  did 
not  trouble  themselves  seriously  about  another's 
misfortunes,  and  a  man  out  of  a  job  was  discred- 
ited. 

He  made  an  estimate  of  the  prejudices  of  the 
regents  and  felt  sure  that  they  would  not  inter- 
fere. If  Judge  Gates  were  present  he  might  cham- 
pion Plow  from  sheer  perversity,  but  his  absence 
left  the  board  exosseous  and  plastic.  Lately  the 
meetings  had  been  held  merely  for  the  purpose  of 
ratifying  the  president's  will.  Interest  had  fallen 
off.  His  enemies  absented  themselves  and  left  a 
bare  quorum  of  his  henchmen  to  do  his  bidding. 
He  would  satisfy  Mrs.  Tupper  at  last,  and  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  should  see  which  man  was  master.  At 
this  thought  his  heart  beat  high  and  something  of 
the  primitive  lust  for  battle  burned  in  his  soul:  an 
impulse  of  insolent  assertion  against  the  man  who 
would  take  the  woman  from  him. 

When  he  went  home  he  broke  his  custom  and 
took  a  drink  of  whiskey  before  nightfall.  The 
fierce  liquor  restored  his  confidence  and  he  waited 
with  greater  composure. 

As  evening  came  on  Argos  emptied  itself  into  the 
capital,  and  Babington  went  with  Fyffe  to  watch  the 
returns.  The  professor  had  rented  a  window  in  a 
wholesale  house  opposite  The  Times  building. 


196  THE   TORCH 

There  they  sat  in  the  dark  alone  and  watched  the 
figures  that  were  flashed  on  the  gigantic  spread 
of  canvas  across  the  way.  No  one  in  the  throng 
below  saw  the  two  faces  at  the  sill,  or  the  glow  of 
their  cigars  against  the  dark  background. 

By  eleven  o'clock  they  knew,  beyond  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt,  that  the  Democrats  were  defeated,  and 
that  the  very  state  in  which  Plow  had  worked  so 
hard  for  his  idol  had  thrown  that  idol  down.  The 
Republican  plurality  was  small,  but  four  years  be- 
fore the  result  had  been  different. 

"I  think,  Doctor,"  Fyffe  remarked  jocosely,  "that 
you  may  safely  venture  upon  the  operation.  If 
you  remove  the  cancer  now  the  whole  body  aca- 
demic will  be  the  better  for  it." 

The  president  laughed  easily  and  leaned  over  the 
window-sill.  Now  that  the  uncertainty  was  at  an 
end,  he  felt  sure  and  exultant.  The  deed  was  as 
good  as  done. 

"The  instruments  are  ready,"  he  replied.  "Look 
here ;  I  didn't  know  there  were  so  many  people  in  the 
state." 

At  that  moment  portraits  of  the  successful  can- 
didates were  flashed  on  the  canvas,  and  below 
them  these  words:  That's  all.  Good  night. 
Read  to-morrow's  Times.  A  mighty  shout  went 
up  from  the  crowded  pavement,  and  a  band  of  uni- 
versity students  began  to  zigzag  down  the  center  of 
the  street,  singing  and  shouting  in  the  enthusiasm 
and  abandon  of  youth. 

"They're  fine  young  fellows,"  Fyffe  remarked. 


THE   MAN   IN   THE   ROAD         197 

"You'll  find  the  educated  men  on  the  side  of  law 
and  order  every  time." 

"Even  if  some  of  them  have  been  drinking,"  Bab- 
ington  retorted. 

"Oh,  well,  boys  will  be  boys.  They'll  outgrow 
it  in  time." 

The  crowd  began  to  dwindle  away,  pushed  right 
and  left  by  the  obstreperous  students.  Some  one 
lighted  a  pan  of  red  fire,  and  the  lurid  glow  brought 
out  more  distinctly  the  long  street  littered  with 
newspapers,  the  faces  of  the  people,  and  the  flash- 
ing rows  of  shop  windows.  The  students  came  to 
a  standstill  once  more  before  The  Times  building, 
breathlessly  laughing  and  shouting. 

"Fellows!"  cried  the  leader.  "Once  more:  three 
times  three,  and  a  tiger  at  the  end !" 

They  gave  the  university  cheer  raggedly,  fol- 
lowed by  the  names  of  the  successful  candidates, 
and  wound  up  with  a  rousing  tiger,  a  wailing 
scream  like  the  war  whoop  of  a  hundred  Apaches. 
Suddenly  they  caught  sight  of  Professor  Plow's 
huge  figure  standing  on  the  curb,  his  head  bent 
forward,  his  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  on  the  por- 
traits that  still  looked  down  from  the  white  can- 
vas. There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation,  almost  of 
embarrassment ;  then  the  leader  of  the  gang  turned 
once  more  to  his  followers. 

"Now,  fellows,  what's  the  matter  with  Professor 
Plow?  He  made  a  game  fight.  Now,  everybody! 
What's  the  matter  with  Plow?" 

"He's  all  right !"  the  crowd  shouted. 


198  THE   TORCH 

"Even  if  he  has  wheels  in  his  head,"  came  a 
voice.  There  was  a  burst  of  laughter,  but  the 
leader  continued. 

"Who's  all  right?" 

"Plow !" 

The  professor  smiled  good-naturedly  at  the  trib- 
ute and  waved  his  hand.  Then  he  turned  abruptly 
and  walked  away. 

A  trolley  car,  bound  for  Argos,  came  slowly 
down  the  street,  and  the  students  made  a  rush. 
They  filled  the  seats,  they  climbed  upon  the  roof, 
and  even  the  fenders  were  soon  packed  with  men. 
Some  of  those  that  were  left  started  off  to  con- 
tinue their  celebration  with  the  medical  students 
in  the  capital,  and  a  few,  having  dared  each  other 
to  walk  all  the  way  back  to  Argos,  set  out  after  the 
car  with  the  swinging  stride  of  youth. 

"That  cheer  for  Plow  was  just  an  expression  of 
good  nature,"  Fyffe  remarked,  "a  sort  of  farewell. 
It  was  more  significant  that  they  didn't  agree  with 
him.  Even  the  students  know  that  he's  a  blind 
leader." 

Neither  of  them  stopped  to  reflect  that  a  few 
hundred  Republicans  did  not  compose  the  entire 
undergraduate  body,  nor  remembered  the  phenome- 
non that  appears  on  such  occasions,  the  early  with- 
drawal of  the  defeated.  At  that  moment  every- 
thing was  Republican. 

They  found  a  footing  in  the  last  car,  packed  to 
the  very  doors  with  a  miscellaneous  crowd.  The 
students  among  them  saw  the  president  hanging 


THE   MAN   IN   THE    ROAD         199 

to  a  strap  and  gave  a  cheer  in  his  honor.  He 
smiled  and  bowed  in  response  and  his  heart  glowed 
with  the  thought  that  the  university  was  behind  him 
to  a  man. 

The  following  afternoon  he  mounted  his  horse 
and  went  to  see  Mrs.  Tupper.  On  the  road  he 
planned  the  order  of  the  topics  of  conversation  he 
meant  to  introduce.  First,  he  would  speak  of  the 
election  and  tell  her  of  his  determination  in  regard 
to  Plow.  He  hoped  her  interest  in  these  things 
would  make  her  forget  the  theater  scene. 

When  he  faced  her  in  the  familiar  room,  however, 
her  coldness  chilled  his  enthusiasm.  He  found 
himself  launched  on  a  monologue  broken  by  only 
an  occasional  perfunctory  word  of  assent.  As 
he  floundered  on  indignation  and  aversion  rose 
within  him.  She  had  never  been  so  unattractive 
as  now,  sitting  huddled  within  her  camel's-hair 
shawl.  Her  thin  face  seemed  more  pinched  than 
usual.  Her  heavy  black  brows,  the  mole  on  her 
cheek,  and  the  complicated  wrinkles  about  her  eyes 
and  mouth  stood  out  distinctly  in  the  light  that 
streamed  on  her  through  the  window.  Those 
wrinkles  told  a  hateful  story  of  jealousy  and  dis- 
trust. Since  Babington's  return  she  had  not  re- 
ceived him  in  the  sunny  sitting-room.  It  was  part 
of  her  plan  of  rehabilitation  to  see  him  in  the  great, 
bleak  parlor.  In  a  spasm  of  economy  she  had  not 
yet  lighted  a  fire,  and  the  chill  of  the  room  inten- 
sified his  impression  of  her  attitude  toward  him. 

He  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  election,  and 


200  THE   TORCH 

only  when  he  announced  his  intention  to  discharge 
Plow  at  once  did  the  flash  of  her  pale  eyes  show 
her  interest. 

"Don't  go  into  your  reasons,  Professor,"  she  in- 
terrupted impatiently.  "I  don't  give  that  for  rea- 
sons," snapping  her  fingers  with  scorn.  "You 
ought  to  have  discharged  him  long  ago,  the  way  I 
told  you."  She  seemed  but  little  mollified  by  his 
late  obedience. 

"Mrs.  Tupper,"  he  answered,  with  a  certain  dig- 
nity, "there  is  one  thing  I  don't  believe  you  have 
taken  into  consideration.  As  it  is,  the  state  has 
gone  Republican  by  a  bare  plurality,  almost  a  mat- 
ter of  a  few  hundred  votes.  If  I  had  discharged 
Plow  before  the  election  it  would  have  made  him  a 
hero  with  the  Democrats.  He  would  have  been  a 
martyr,  the  rallying  center  of  the  masses  who 
clamor  against  imperialism,  and  the  election  in 
this  state  would  have  gone  the  other  way."  His 
look  was  stern,  his  tone  indignant,  and  her  eyes 
softened  with  admiration.  It  was  firmness  like  this 
that  she  desired  in  him. 

"You're  right,"  she  admitted,  with  sudden  rea- 
sonableness. "You're  perfectly  right,  and  I'm  a 
cantankerous  old  woman."  She  paused,  then 
caught  herself  up  on  the  phrase.  "I'm  not  an  old 
woman !"  she  burst  out  passionately.  "I  suppose 
you  think  I'm  an  old  woman,  compared  to  that  lit- 
tle minx,  Susie  Van  Sant!" 

He  quailed  before  the  fierce  flame  of  jealousy 
that  made  her  for  the  moment  diabolical.  In  the 
expression  of  her  face  and  the  gleam  of  her  eyes 


THE   MAN    IN   THE    ROAD         201 

he  saw  her  soul  revealed;  helpless  rage  against  her 
years,  hatred  of  her  rival.  Then  the  gulf  into 
which  he  had  gazed  was  closed.  She  sank  back  in 
her  chair,  quivering,  and  her  voice  grew  plaintive. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,  Professor. 
You  think  you're  in  love  with  Susie  Van  Sant,  and 
perhaps  you  think  she's  in  love  with  you,  but  she 
ain't.  I  know  her.  I've  known  her  a  long  time. 
She  was  brought  up  in  this  town,  always  hateful 
and  red-headed,  only  now  she's  smarter  in  conceal- 
ing her  meanness  than  she  used  to  be.  Well,  she 
went  to  Washington  and  caught  that  colonel.  She 
married  him  for  his  money.  Ever  since  then  she's 
been  stuck  up  and  sneered  at  her  old  friends.  She's 
always  looking  out  for  number  one.  They  say  she 
bedeviled  the  old  colonel  out  of  his  life,  and  I  be- 
lieve it." 

Her  listener's  face  was  such -a  study  that  she 
broke  into  a  short,  harsh  laugh. 

"You  know  I'm  right,"  she  resumed,  guessing 
shrewdly  that  her  rival  had  not  always  been  amiable 
to  him.  "If  you  thought  I  was  wrong,  if  you  was 
really  in  love  with  her,  you  wouldn't  sit  and  listen 
to  me,  not  if  you  was  a  man.  But  you're  not  in  love 
with  her,  no  more  than  she  is  with  you.  You  two 
are  just  kind  of  measuring  and  weighing  each  other. 
You  can  do  better  than  that,  Professor,  if  it's  money 
you  want.  She's  not  so  rich.  I  don't  believe  she's 
got  a  hundred  thousand  to  her  name.  It's  the  boy 
that  has  the  money.  She's  thinking  of  catching  you 
now,  as  she  did  the  colonel,  and  if  she  does  it  she'll 
lead  you  a  devil's  own  life.  You  won't  know  no 


202  THE   TORCH 

peace  of  mind  till  you  lay  down  in  your  grave.  She 
just  wants  to  be  Mrs.  President;  I  know  her." 

Babington's  smile  was  enigmatical,  but  she  read 
its  riddle. 

"You  think  I'm  jealous,  that's  what  you're  think- 
ing, but  that's  not  what  makes  me  talk  this  way  to 
you.  It's  because  I'm  not  thinking  all  the  time  of 
myself,  like  she  does.  I'm  thinking  of  you." 

"You're  very  considerate,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"You'll  find  I  am,  even  if  I  don't  put  on  airs  of 
society  and  smile  on  you  the  way  she  does.  She 
takes  it  out  on  others  after  you're  gone.  She 
can't  keep  the  same  servant  in  her  house  two  weeks 
running."  He  remembered  that  the  same  maid 
had  admitted  him  to  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  since  he  first 
called,  but  said  nothing. 

"When  I  was  young  I  didn't  have  no  advantages 
like  Susie  Van  Sant  had,"  she  went  on.  "I  might 
have  learned  some  of  her  tricks.  Men  like  tricks. 
They'd  rather  be  tricked  than  loved  any  day." 

She  continued  to  talk,  now  plaintively  of  herself, 
now  spitefully  of  her  rival,  but  he  was  thinking  of 
her  money  rather  than  of  what  she  said.  Her  sor- 
did autobiography  offended  him,  and  her  self-pity 
hardened  his  heart.  He  knew  that  he  could  have 
her  for  the  asking;  she  had  all  but  told  him  so  be- 
fore, and  never  so  plainly  as  now.  He  pictured  the 
figure  she  would  make  as  his  wife,  and  sickened 
at  the  thought.  Yet  she  would  not  live  long.  She 
had  failed  perceptibly  since  he  first  knew  her.  The 
excitement  of  her  new  mode  of  life  was  doing  its 
work,  was  gradually  wearing  her  out. 


THE   MAN    IN   THE    ROAD         203 

He  was  relieved  when  she  ordered  the  usual  re- 
freshments. She  served  him  with  a  tremulous  de- 
sire to  please;  in  her  awkward  way  she  almost  pet- 
ted him.  As  he  contrasted  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  deli- 
cate social  art  he  could  scarcely  conceal  a  smile. 
His  present  hostess  appeared  like  a  solicitous  aunt 
or  grandmother  fluttering  about  his  chair. 

When  he  was  once  more  in  the  saddle  he  gave 
his  horse  a  sharp  cut  with  the  whip,  an  expression 
of  his  irritation.  The  spirited  animal  reared  on 
his  hind  legs,  snorted  with  surprise,  and  then  sped 
down  the  road  at  a  furious  pace.  Something  af 
the  master's  state  of  mind  was  communicated  to 
the  beast's  sensitive  nature. 

The  president  had  passed  the  city  limits  and  was 
well  on  the  way  toward  Argos  when  he  caught 
sight  of  a  familiar  figure  coming  toward  him  on  a 
bicycle.  The  autumn  afternoon  was  rapidly  deep- 
ening into  night,  but  Plow's  square  shoulders 
sprang  up  against  the  luminous  sky-line  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  crest  of  a  hill.  The  professor  never 
bent  over  the  handle-bars,  but  sat  on  his  saddle  like 
a  tower.  His  silhouette  had  not  dropped  below  the 
ridge  before  the  president's  mind  was  made  up,  and 
as  the  rider  sped  smoothly  past  he  turned  in  his 
saddle  with  a  shout. 

The  two  men  circled  slowly  and  approached  each 
other.  At  last  Plow  dismounted  from  his  wheel 
and  stood  in  silence,  his  hand  resting  on  the  bar. 
The  horse  danced  nervously  about  the  immovable 
figure,  as  his  master  jerked  the  reins.  All  the 


204  THE   TORCH 

concentrated  emotions  of  the  past  year  in  regard 
to  this  man  surged  in  the  president's  heart  and  gave 
a  vindictive  distinctness  to  his  words. 

"Professor  Plow,  I  stopped  you  merely  to  inform 
you  of  your  discharge  from  the  university.  I  do 
not  think  you  need  to  ask  the  reason,  but  you're 
welcome  to  it  for  the  asking." 

There  was  no  response  from  the  man  in  the  road. 
Suddenly  a  ray  of  light  from  the  setting  sun  flooded 
all  the  cloudy  sky  with  ridges  of  pale  splendor,  and 
Babington  saw  the  strange  eyes  of  his  enemy  up- 
lifted implacably  to  his  own.  His  impulse  of  ar- 
rogance and  hatred  was  so  great  that  he  could  al- 
most have  ridden  him  down. 

"You  understand  me?"  he  said  haughtily.  "The 
discharge  is  to  take  effect  immediately." 

For  reply  Plow  leisurely  remounted  his  wheel 
and  rode  away.  The  president  laughed  insolently 
after  the  retreating  figure  and  then  resumed  his 
furious  pace  toward  Argos. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

• 

THE  DECIDING  VOTE 

As  soon  as  the  president  reached  Argos  he  tele- 
graphed to  a  young  political  economist  in  the  east, 
with  whom  he  had  previously  corresponded,  and 
asked  him  to  come  on  at  once  to  take  the  vacant 
chair.  Then  he  went  home  and  wrote  Professor 
Plow  a  diplomatic  letter,  to  make  the  dismissal 
formal.  In  this  note  he  specified  the  causes  of  his 
action :  offensive  political  partizanship  in  a  profes- 
sor of  a  state  university,  and  neglect  of  duty.  Not 
a  word  was  said  about  Plow's  advocacy  of  the  pub- 
lic ownership  of  public  utilities,  nor  about  any  of 
his  opinions.  From  the  wording  of  the  letter  one 
could  not  guess  whether  the  offender  were  a  Re- 
publican or  a  Democrat,  nor  estimate  the  extent  of 
his  neglect  of  university  duties. 

After  dinner  Babington  attended  a  meeting  of 
the  committee  on  athletics,  of  which  he  was  chair- 
man, and  mailed  the  letter  on  the  way.  The  dis- 
cussion at  the  meeting  was  protracted  and  unsatis- 
factory. The  annual  football  game  with  Wash- 
ington University  was  to  occur  on  the  third  day, 
and  charges  of  professionalism  had  been  made  by 
each  side  against  the  other.  The  best  two  players 

205 


206  THE   TORCH 

at  Argos  were  under  suspicion.  They  were  ac- 
cused of  having  played  baseball  for  money  during 
the  previous  summer,  and,  in  addition,  their  class 
standing  was  below  the  mark.  There  was  no  proof 
of  professionalism,  but  the  low  standing  of  the 
men  was  beyond  doubt. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  meeting  adjourned  without 
having  reached  any  more  definite  decision  than  to 
bring  the  matter  before  the  faculty  on  the  morrow. 
Three  members  of  the  committee  prepared  a  ma- 
jority report  recommending  that  the  men  be  al- 
lowed to  play,  but  Everett  and  Lee  resolved  to  pre- 
sent a  minority  report  in  dissent. 

Babington  went  home  in  a  dissatisfied  frame  of 
mind.  He  did  not  care  to  analyze  his  own  motives 
in  advocating  leniency  toward  the  suspected  play- 
ers ;  he  was  irritated  at  the  stubbornness  of  Everett 
and  Lee,  and  physical  weariness  brought  on  a  vague 
foreboding  in  regard  to  Plow.  As  he  passed  the 
mail-box  he  almost  wished  he  could  recover  the  let- 
ter and  then  patch  up  the  quarrel  by  word  of 
mouth ;  but  his  telegram  was  already  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Plow's  successor,  and  the  die  was  cast.  He 
remembered  that  implacable  look  in  the  twilight, 
that  silence  more  ominous  than  words,  and  his  heart 
failed  him. 

He  passed  on,  marshaling  reason  and  experience 
to  his  rescue.  After  all,  he  need  not  fear  the  at- 
tacks of  the  newspapers.  He  had  endured  one 
fierce  assault  without  tottering,  and  might  well 
doubt  that  any  biting  power  lay  behind  the  journal- 
istic bark. 


THE    DECIDING   VOTE  207 

Later,  he  lay  awake,  a  prey  to  the  warring  forces 
within  him.  When  he  heard  the  clock  in  the  li- 
brary tower  strike  one  he  realized  that  the  time 
for  sleep  had  passed,  that  only  the  dawn  would 
bring  oblivion.  He  thought  of  getting  up  to  read, 
to  smoke,  to  take  a  drink,  to  write  a  letter,  but  the 
hours  went  by,  leaving  him  still  unable  to  arise,  un- 
able to  sleep. 

At  three  o'clock  he  pictured  the  huge  presses  of 
The  Times  already  reeling  off  the  first  edition. 
Somewhere  on  that  white  roll  of  paper,  indis- 
tinguishable because  of  the  rapid  whirl,  was  a  heavy 
headline,  telling  of  that  meeting  on  the  road,  that 
would  smite  him  like  a  whip.  Again  and  again 
and  again,  thousands  of  times,  it  told  its  startling 
story,  soon  to  be  read  and  discussed  all  over  the 
state.  Of  course  Plow  had  ridden  into  the  capital 
and  given  the  papers  his  version  of  the  incident. 
Babington  mentally  elaborated  a  denial  of  rude- 
ness. He  would  write  to  The  Times  and  say  that 
he  had  prepared  the  professor  most  courteously 
and  considerately  for  the  letter  of  dismissal  which 
it  would  be  his  painful  duty  to  write.  There  were 
no  witnesses  of  the  scene,  he  reflected,  and  one 
man's  word  was  as  good  as  another's.  The  self- 
control  and  urbanity  of  his  letter  would  win  sym- 
pathy and  credence.  The  thought  of  the  whirling 
presses  at  length  became  monotonous  and  sedative, 
and  he  failed  to  hear  the  clock  strike  four. 

On  Thursday  morning  he  opened  the  paper  with 
trembling  haste,  but  found  nothing  more  startling 
than  the  usual  murders  and  accidents  and  the  later 


208  THE   TORCH 

details  of  the  Republican  victory.  He  went  to  his 
office,  giddy  from  lack  of  sleep,  but  happy  in  the 
hope  that  Plow  would  drop  quietly  out  of  sight 
without  a  struggle.  His  silence  was  an  admission 
of  guilt,  and  Babington  chid  himself  for  failing 
to  realize  the  moral  strength  of  his  own  position. 
On  his  desk  he  found  the  acceptance  of  Plow's  suc- 
cessor, a  young  doctor  of  philosophy,  well  off  in  his 
own  right, — a  man  after  the  president's  own  heart. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said,  "have  you 
seen  Professor  Plow  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  came  for  his  mail  about  eight 
o'clock,  and  then  went  away  again." 

"How  did  he  seem?"  Babington  asked,  with  ap- 
parent carelessness;  "much  as  usual?" 

"A  little  more  so,  sir.  He  needed  a  shave  and 
looked  as  if  he  had  slept  all  night  in  his  clothes." 

The  president  glanced  at  his  smiling  secretary 
in  surprise,  not  untouched  by  displeasure.  He  did 
not  relish  that  assumption  of  a  mutual  understand- 
ing, but  decided  to  let  it  pass.  He  turned  over  the 
pages  of  the  university  catalogue,  and  then  con- 
tinued : 

"I  see  that  he  has  no  courses  to-day.  To-morrow 
morning  I  want  you  to  post  a  notice  on  his  door 
to  the  effect  that  the  course  in  political  economy 
will  be  discontinued  until  Doctor  Pringle  comes  to 
take  Professor  Plow's  place.  Until  then  not  a  word, 
if  you  please,  to  any  one." 

That  day  the  president  performed  more  work 
than  usual.  His  nerves  tingled  with  unnatural 
energy,  and  he  felt  no  sense  of  weariness.  His 


THE    DECIDING   VOTE  209 

dismissal  of  Plow  had  come  to  present  itself  to  him 
as  a  great  victory  over  treason  and  lawlessness,  and 
his  moral  rehabilitation  was  complete. 

At  four  o'clock  the  faculty  assembled  in  the 
Philosophy  building  to  debate  concerning  the  sus- 
pected students.  The  president's  false  strength 
had  begun  to  ebb.  He  removed  his  glasses  and 
rubbed  his  aching  eyes  with  a  feeling  of  strain  and 
irritation.  He  was  conscious  of  the  tension  and 
excitement  in  the  men  before  him,  and  outside,  on 
the  football  field,  he  could  hear  the  students  cheering 
the  practice  of  their  favorite  athletes.  The  room 
was  warm,  and  the  steam  radiator  clicked  until  he 
felt  that  each  sound  was  a  rap  on  his  weary  brain. 
He  was  consumed  with  a  desire  to  smoke,  but  smok- 
ing had  never  been  allowed  at  the  faculty  meetings 
and  he  did  not  venture  to  introduce  the  innovation. 
It  was  some  time  before  the  radiator  was  silenced 
and  the  meeting  came  to  order.  Even  then  the 
president  was  annoyed  by  the  whispering  of  the 
men  who  were  asking  each  other  the  reason  of 
Plow's  unaccustomed  absence. 

As  soon  as  the  conflicting  reports  of  the  com- 
mittee were  presented  the  struggle  between  con- 
tending wills  and  principles  began.  Sometimes 
two  or  three  men  were  on  their  feet  at  the  same 
time,  clamoring  for  recognition.  There  was  not  a 
little  sophistry,  not  a  little  juggling  of  facts,  in  the 
effort  to  make  concession  to  student  opinion  appear 
reasonable  and  just.  One  party  burned  with  indig- 
nation at  the  stubbornness  of  the  martinets,  the 
other  at  the  subserviency  of  the  weak-kneed.  The 


210  THE   TORCH 

atmosphere  of  the  room  became  more  feverish. 
Now  and  again  taunts  were  exchanged  and  the 
president  rapped  the  table  in  vain  in  his  effort  to 
restore  order. 

Darkness  came,  and  the  electric  lights  were 
turned  on.  The  hard  glare  of  the  fiery  wires  went 
through  Babington's  eyes  with  a  sharp  pain.  He 
felt  that  he  had  lived  a  long  life  of  torture  in  that 
place,  and  he  hated  Lee  and  Everett  for  holding  the 
ranks  of  the  opposition  firm.  Lee's  cynical,  banter- 
ing good  humor  and  Everett's  stern,  gray  face  were 
maddening  to  him.  This  fight  had  brought  them 
together  once  more.  Their  momentary  disagree- 
ment concerning  Plow  was  forgotten  in  the  com- 
radeship of  their  common  cause.  Lee  knew  now 
that  it  was  not  timidity  that  had  caused  Everett  to 
hesitate  to  condemn  Babington,  but  honest  doubt  of 
the  justice  of  Plow's  cause.  The  football  practice 
was  over,  and  it  seemed  that  the  whole  undergradu- 
ate body  was  streaming  up  from  the  field  to  besiege 
the  council. 

At  last  a  vote  was  taken  and  a  deadlock  an- 
nounced. In  the  confusion  that  followed  Professor 
Everett  advanced  to  the  front  of  the  room  and  de- 
manded the  attention  of  the  chair.  There  was 
something  in  the  expression  of  his  face  that  com- 
pelled recognition,  though  Fyffe  and  two  others 
were  shouting  from  their  seats. 

The  professor  faced  his  colleagues  sternly  and 
waited  for  silence.  No  one,  seeing  him  then  for  the 
first  time,  would  have  ventured  to  predicate  cour- 
tesy of  him  as  his  distinguishing  trait.  His  ruf- 


THE    DECIDING   VOTE  211 

fled  and  owl-like  appearance  was  intensified;  the 
slow  fires  of  his  being  were  concentrated  into  a 
steady  white  heat  behind  his  large  spectacles. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  rise  for  the  last  time  to 
enter  my  protest  against  yielding  to  student  opinion 
in  this  matter.  I  know  it  is  a  little  difficult  to 
think  clearly  while  the  mob  is  howling  at  the  doors. 
They  have  sent  us  a  petition  that  these  two  sus- 
pects be  allowed  to  play.  They  have  signed  it  one 
after  another,  as  a  lot  of  sheep  follow  each  other 
over  a  fence.  In  their  hearts  nine-tenths  of  them 
know  better.  They  know  that  these  two  men  have 
fallen  below  the  standard  we  have  set  and  that  they 
have  no  right  to  play.  I  would  rather  we  should 
be  defeated  honestly  than  win  a  dishonest  victory. 
What  our  opponents  may  do  does  not  concern  us; 
it  is  our  business  to  keep  our  own  skirts  clean.  We 
must  help  the  reason  of  our  students  against  their 
passion  for  victory  at  any  price.  I  am  reminded 
of  the  English  schoolboys  who  called  their  master 
a  'beast,'  but  always  added  that  he  was  a  'just 
beast.'  Let  us  be  just  beasts  in  this  case.  The 
facts  are  before  us  and  we  can  not  blink  them." 

He  looked  hard  at  Professor  Fyffe,  but  refrained 
from  personalities.  It  was  a  great  element  of 
strength  in  Everett  that  he  fought  principles  rather 
than  men,  and  no  one  could  ever  say  that  he  wielded 
the  sword  of  sarcasm. 

"We  are  not  here,"  he  continued,  "merely  to 
teach  learning  to  young  men  and  women.  I  take 
it  that  this  is  a  miniature  republic,  and  that  by  in- 
culcating the  lessons  of  justice  and  courage  in  this 


212  THE   TORCH 

university  we  shall  best  aid  the  state  in  .the  days  to 
come,  in  the  days  when  these  young  men  will  prac- 
tise on  a  larger  scale  the  principles  they  have 
learned  from  us." 

"Professor  Everett,"  the  president  interrupted, 
"and  gentlemen,  one  moment,  if  you  please.  I 
have  reserved  my  ballot  on  the  motion  till  now,  and 
with  your  permission  I  shall  vote  that  the  students 
in  question  be  not  allowed  to  play  in  the  game  with 
Washington  University." 

Any  decision  was  a  relief.  A  round  of  applause 
greeted  the  announcement,  and  Everett  went  back 
to  receive  the  congratulations  of  his  friends,  his 
face  beaming.  Babington  himself  could  scarcely 
analyze  his  own  motives,  for  he  spoke  on  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment.  Maddened  by  the  pain  in  his 
eyes,  exhausted  by  the  long  contention,  and  con- 
fronted by  Everett's  uncompromising  stare,  he  had 
cast  his  vote  to  end  suspense  and  indecision.  Had 
the  last  speaker  been  on  the  other  side  he  might 
have  voted  otherwise. 

It  was  after  six  o'clock  when  the  men  crowded 
out  into  the  fresh  air  and  hurried  to  their  homes. 
The  secretary  of  the  faculty  pushed  his  way 
through  the  throng  of  waiting  students  to  post  the 
decision  on  the  bulletin  board.  More  than  one  of 
them  made  a  furtive  grab  at  the  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  his  pace  quickened  to  a  run.  They  streamed 
after  him  down  the  hill  toward  College  Hall. 
It  was  now  fairly  dark  and  the  scattered  electric 
lights  intensified  the  impression  of  confusion  and 
violence  by  a  half  disclosure. 


THE   DECIDING   VOTE  213 

Babington  disappeared  in  the  shadows.  He  was 
glad  to  get  away.  By  the  time  the  secretary  had 
reached  the  bulletin  board  not  a  member  of  the 
faculty  was  in  sight.  Looking  back  from  a  dis- 
tance they  saw  the  flare  of  matches  held  up  to  illu- 
minate the  report.  Then  they  heard  a  hoarse  roar 
of  angry  protest,  the  unthinking  menace  of  the 
mob. 

That  night  the  students  were  abroad.  They  felt 
that  the  game  with  Washington  was  as  good  as 
lost  by  the  disqualification  of  their  best  players. 
They  argued  that  their  rivals  intended  to  play  with 
men  whose  standing  was  equally  suspicious,  and 
resented  the  decision  of  the  faculty  as  quixotic 
and  unreasonable. 

Not  long  after  dinner  Babington  heard  them 
jeering  and  groaning  at  his  door.  It  needed  but 
this  ruling  to  overthrow  his  popularity  like  a  house 
of  cards.  His  first  impulse  was  to  go  out  and 
make  them  a  speech,  but  he  realized  that  he  was 
too  much  shaken  by  the  events  of  the  last  two  days 
to  be  able  to  stand  the  strain.  Leaving  his  sister 
trembling  in  the  dining-room,  he  went  up  to  his 
study  alone.  The  room  was  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  he  could  have  shut  out  the  cries  in  front 
by  closing  the  door,  but  instead  he  sat  in  the  dark 
and  listened. 

A  window  in  the  front  of  the  house  was  open, 
and  down  the  intervening  hall  the  words  of  the 
crowd  came  distinctly  to  his  ears.  For  the  first 
time  the  president  realized  the  disadvantage  of  his 
policy  of  imperialism,  for  he  saw  that  they  held 


214  THE    TORCH 

him  responsible.  Some  of  the  professors  were 
hooted,  but  he  fared  even  worse  than  they.  He 
heard  one  of  his  pet  phrases  repeated  and  greeted 
with  a  burst  of  derisive  laughter. 

"Fellows,  this  is  a  'religious  meeting' !  You're 
making  too  much  noise."  Nothing  in  his  life  had 
ever  given  him  a  greater  shock  than  this  ridicule 
from  the  mouths  of  those  whom  he  had  thought  to 
instruct.  He  hated  and  feared  their  unnatural  sense 
of  humor,  and  he  took  a  hint  for  the  future.  At 
length  the  students  marched  away  to  vent  their 
wrath  at  other  doors,  and,  in  spite  of  his  anxieties, 
his  weariness  enabled  him  to  sleep  when  he  went  to 
bed  shortly  after. 

There  were  few  professors  that  night  who  es- 
caped the  tribute  of  hisses,  groans  and  jeers,  but 
they  remained  obstinately  indoors  with  curtains 
drawn.  The  fiercest  demonstration  occurred  before 
Professor  Stuart's  gate.  The  rioters  called  him  a 
bloody  Britisher,  and  asked  how  he  could  have  the 
nerve  to  vote  in  a  faculty  meeting  when  he  refused 
to  become  an  American  citizen  and  vote  at  the  polls. 

By  some  means  the  news  of  the  disturbance 
reached  the  capital,  and  the  reporters  came  over  to 
Argos  as  fast  as  the  trolley  cars  could  carry  them. 
They  tried  to  gain  an  entrance  to  the  president,  but 
Miss  Babington  denied  them  on  the  ground  that 
her  brother  was  very  tired  and  had  gone  to  bed, 
leaving  word  that  he  had  nothing  to  say.  Then 
they  hurried  to  the  great  bonfire  which  was  blazing 
furiously  in  the  middle  of  the  campus,  fed  by  broken 
planks  and  rails.  The  demonstration  was  fast  de- 


THE    DECIDING   VOTE  215 

veloping  into  an  orgy  of  vandalism,  and  the  few 
policemen  of  Argos  were  helpless. 

Suddenly  a  figure  emerged  from  the  surrounding 
darkness  and  stood  forth  in  the  glare  of  the  fire. 
It  was  Captain  Kip,  the  military  commandant,  in 
full  uniform,  his  sword  drawn.  There  was  not  a 
student  in  the  university  that  did  not  respect  the 
self-contained  little  man  who  had  served  in  Cuba 
under  Shafter,  and  his  apparition  gave  them  pause. 

"Men!"  he  cried  sternly,  "this  is  a  riot,  and 
every  one  of  you  ought  to  be  put  in  the  lockup. 
I've  got  enough  men  behind  me  here  to  fix  you  in 
about  two  shakes  if  you  don't  disperse.  Captain 
Van  Sant,  turn  on  the  hose." 

They  looked  back  and  saw  a  line  of  bayonets  con- 
verging upon  them  as  Robert  led  his  company  on. 
Then  a  stream  of  water  leaped  forth  with  all  the 
pressure  of  the  lake  in  the  hills  behind  it.  The 
blazing  brands  of  the  fire  went  spinning  into  the 
air,  and  not  a  few  of  the  revelers  were  thrown 
prostrate.  Some  fled  in  panic,  others  withdrew 
jeering  and  laughing;  but  the  coup  was  successful 
and  the  disorder  was  at  an  end.  In  a  few  minutes 
nothing  but  a  hissing,  steaming  spot  remained  to 
indicate  the  scene  of  the  fire,  and  Argos  settled 
down  into  quiet. 

When  Robert  took  the  commandant  home  with 
him  for  refreshments,  as  Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  or- 
dered him  to  do,  she  listened  to  the  story  with  the 
greatest  amusement,  and  then  gave  the  young  man 
the  first  hug  he  had  ever  received  from  her. 
He  was  embarrassed  by  the  attention,  but  Captain 


216  THE   TORCH 

Kip  stood  twirling  his  mustache  and  smiling  his 
appreciation  of  the  scene. 

"That's  hardly  fair,"  he  remarked.  "I  call  that 
downright  partiality.  There  are  others  who  de- 
serve a  reward." 

"Virtue  is  its  own  reward,  Captain,"  she  re- 
torted with  her  most  engaging  smile,  "but  you  shall 
have  a  welsh  rabbit  and  a  bottle  of  beer  all  to  your- 
self, and  perhaps  even  a  cigar." 

It  was  midnight  when  the  commandant  stalked 
through  the  deserted  streets  on  the  way  to  his  room, 
reflecting  on  the  loneliness  of  a  bachelor's  life. 

The  reporters  returned  to  the  capital  with  what 
they  considered  the  best  university  story  of  the  year 
and  were  not  a  little  pleased  with  their  expedition. 
But  the  wind  was  taken  from  their  sails  when  they 
discovered  that  a  better  story  had  beaten  them  in. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   WRITING   ON   THE   WALL 

On  Friday  morning  the  president  awoke  greatly 
refreshed.  He  had  slept  through  the  disorder  on 
the  campus  and  knew  nothing  of  the  fire  until  he 
opened  The  Times  at  the  breakfast  table.  The 
news  that  greeted  his  eyes  was  all  the  more  startling 
because  so  unexpected.  It  seemed  that  the  whole 
paper  was  given  up  to  the  scandal.  There  was  a 
crude  representation  of  the  fire,  surmounted  by  the 
portraits  of  the  two  athletes,  but  these  things  ar- 
rested his  attention  only  a  moment.  On  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  page  he  saw  his  own  picture  and 
Plow's  side  by  side,  inclosed  in  a  fancy  scroll  and 
duly  labeled:  HENRY  BABINGTON,  PRESIDENT  OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY,  AND  DANIEL  PLOW,  THE  DIS- 
CHARGED PROFESSOR. 

Underneath  these  inscriptions  he  read  the  letter 
he  had  written  to  Plow  on  Wednesday  night,  after 
his  return  from  the  meeting  on  the  road,  and  the  re- 
port of  an  interview  in  which  the  professor  de- 
fended his  own  position.  He  was  surprised  and  re- 
lieved to  find  that  Plow  mentioned  the  meeting  only 
casually  as  a  professional  discourtesy,  and  confined 
his  remarks  chiefly  to  an  exposition  of  his  theories 

217 


218  THE   TORCH 

of  liberty  within  the  university.  The  sight  of  the 
pictures  had  led  the  president  to  expect  something 
personal  and  passionate,  but  Plow's  self-control 
gave  the  dismissal  the  aspect  of  a  difference  of  opin- 
ion rather  than  of  a  personal  quarrel. 

The  editorial  page,  however,  was  much  less  com- 
forting. In  an  article  of  great  cleverness  the  pro- 
fessor's arguments  were  summarized  more  effect- 
ively than  he  had  given  them  in  his  conversation. 
The  neglect  of  duty  which  the  president  alleged 
consisted  in  the  dismissal  of  classes  for  one  day; 
other  professors  had  done  so  repeatedly  with  im- 
punity. The  professor's  offensive  political  partizan- 
ship  was  offensive  only  because  he  was  a  Democrat. 
Why  was  he  not  discharged  before  the  election  in- 
stead of  afterward?  What  could  President  Bab- 
ington  say  of  the  fact  that  a  majority  of  the  faculty 
of  the  State  University  had  signed  an  argument  in 
favor  of  the  Republican  currency  plank  four  years 
ago?  Was  not  that  offensive  partizanship ?  Did  it 
not  establish  a  precedent?  The  real  reason  of  the 
dismissal,  as  every  one  knew,  was  the  socialistic 
doctrines  of  the  professor,  and  especially  his  con- 
tention that  the  people  should  own  and  control  their 
public  utilities.  What  was  there  so  revolutionary  in 
that?  Did  they  not  own  and  control  the  mail  sys- 
tem? The  editor  did  not  doubt  that  a  certain 
wealthy  and  eccentric  benefactress  of  the  university 
was  at  the  president's  back  to  egg  him  on.  More 
than  once  she  had  expressed  her  hostility  to  Pro- 
fessor Plow,  and  in  all  probability  she  had  brought 
pressure  to  bear  upon  the  president,  causing  him  to 


THE   WRITING   ON   THE   WALL    219 

be  false  to  his  old  friend  and  unjust  to  one  of  the 
ablest  and  most  popular  teachers  in  the  university. 

Babington  went  to  his  office  early  and  chose  the 
time  between  hours  when  most  of  the  students 
would  be  attending  lectures,  for  the  hint  in  the  pa- 
per concerning  Plow's  popularity  made  him  unwill- 
ing to  encounter  them  in  the  mass.  Nevertheless, 
there  were  many  young  men  lounging  and  smoking 
in  front  of  College  Hall  as  he  passed,  erect  and  un- 
seeing. It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  the  riot  had 
occurred  the  night  before.  Fear  of  punishment 
hung  like  a  pall  over  the  spirits  of  the  participants. 
They  saw  the  broken  rails  in  the  fence,  the  gaps  in 
the  board  walk,  the  charred  remnants  of  the  fire, 
and  imagined  a  long  list  of  the  guilty  already  in  the 
hands  of  the  faculty.  Yet  indignation  at  Plow's 
treatment  ran  high  among  them,  and  before  the 
president  reached  his  office  he  heard  a  distant  cheer, 
coupled  with  the  professor's  name. 

He  hurried  into  his  room  as  into  a  sanctuary  of 
refuge,  and  went  to  work  on  the  letter  he  had 
planned,  the  reply  that  was  to  win  sympathy  by  its 
moderation  and  urbanity.  Plow's  own  moderation 
was  a  theft  of  his  thunder,  but  he  was  able  to  adopt 
a  strain  of  chivalrous  protection  of  Mrs.  Tupper 
against  the  insinuations  of  the  editor.  He  declared 
in  unequivocal  language  that  she  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  his  action,  that  the  reasons  he  had 
assigned  in  his  letter  were  the  real  reasons,  and  im- 
plied firmly  that  the  incident  was  closed,  to  the  great 
benefit  of  the  university  and  the  people  of  the 
state. 


220  THE   TORCH 

It  was  noon  before  this  letter,  often  interrupted, 
was  finished.  Professors  came  in  and  spoke  of 
various  things,  their  darkened  faces  masking  hatred 
or  suspicion  or  fear,  for  no  such  high-handed  action 
had  ever  before  occurred  in  the  history  of  the  uni- 
versity, and  no  one  knew  where  the  next  bolt  might 
fall.  The  undergraduate  body  was  demoralized. 
Reports  of  disorder  in  several  classrooms  reached 
the  office,  for  professors  suspected  of  having  fa- 
vored the  athletic  ruling  were  bedeviled  in  a  hun- 
dred ways.  The  students  that  were  to  have  at- 
tended Plow's  lectures  employed  their  idle  time  in 
marching  about  the  campus  and  cheering  their  hero. 

Others  were  more  interested  in  the  great  football 
game  that  was  to  be  fought  on  the  morrow  with  a 
crippled  team.  Both  groups  of  malcontents  held  the 
president  responsible.  As  the  excitement  gained 
headway  even  the  rioters  of  the  night  before  forgot 
their  jeopardy  and  joined  with  the  others  in  venting 
their  displeasure  beneath  the  office  windows.  The 
president  sent  Watkins  to  post  a  notice  that  the 
college  meeting  which  was  to  have  been  held  in  the 
gymnasium  would  be  omitted,  protecting  himself 
but  furnishing  the  irreverent  with  a  new  variation 
on  the  old  jest.  A  wag  among  the  students,  standing 
on  the  steps  of  the  gymnasium,  dismissed  his  fellows 
with  a  mock  blessing  in  which  some  of  Babington's 
choice  phrases  were  cunningly  woven. 

The  president  gave  his  letter  to  a  reporter  that 
had  come  for  an  interview,  and  took  advantage  of 
the  comparative  quiet  of  the  noon  hour  to  return 


THE   WRITING   ON   THE   WALL    221 

home.  He  did  not  go  back  to  his  office  that  day, 
but  worked  with  Watkins  in  his  study. 

About  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  Professor 
Plow  called  on  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  She  had  not  seen 
him  for  a  month,  and  however  much  she  might 
quarrel  with  him  when  present,  she  did  not  relish 
his  neglect  of  her  in  favor  of  politics.  She  was  still 
in  her  breakfast  jacket  by  the  fire  when  he  followed 
his  card  into  the  room,  and  though  she  knew  her 
apparel  made  no  difference  to  him  it  supplied  her 
with  a  first  remark. 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  dress  for  the  afternoon," 
she  said,  lowering  the  curtain  with  a  pretty  pre- 
tense of  concern  for  her  appearance,  "but  I  know 
you  will  excuse  me.  Last  night  Robert  was  out  late 
quelling  the  rioters,  and  he  invited  Captain  Kip  here 
for  refreshments,  so  it  was  midnight  before  I 
thought  of  going  to  bed.  I  had  expected  to  see  you 
as  thin  as  a  rail'  after  the  campaign,  but  you  never 
looked  better."  Her  comment  was  justified,  for  he 
was  clean  shaven  and  dressed  with  unaccustomed 
neatness. 

"I've  talked  away  twenty  pounds  in  weight,"  he 
replied,  "and  yet  I  never  felt  more  fit,  as  they  say. 
That's  because  I've  had  something  to  do  that  is 
worth  while.  They  beat  us  this  time,  but  we'll  come 
up  again.  It's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning." 

She  had  expected  to  see  him  broken  by  defeat  and 
humiliated  by  his  dismissal,  but  there  was  an  in- 
domitable determination  and  cheerfulness  in  his 
words  and  manner  that  gave  her  a  new  conception 


222  THE   TORCH 

of  his  quality.  She  could  only  guess  what  strug- 
gles he  had  endured  in  the  last  few  days,  but  she 
could  not  mistake  the  result.  He  seemed  subtly 
changed,  less  ponderous  and  prosy,  a  man  whose 
every  faculty  was  in  harmonious  action.  He  was 
powerful,  effective,  undismayed,  and  his  next  words 
showed  her  that  he  had  no  intention  of  discussing 
his  dismissal  from  the  university. 

"Did  you  get  the  speeches  I  sent  you?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  did,  and  I  may  as  well  confess  that,  partly 
from  stupidity,  partly  perhaps  from  feminine  per- 
versity, I  remain  still  unconverted." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Madam,  I'll  not  argue  the  question  longer." 
There  was  a  touch  of  quaintness  and  gallantry  in 
the  "madam"  that  pleased  her.-  His  mode  of  ad- 
dress seemed,  moreover,  an  ebullition  of  good 
spirits,  the  exhilaration  of  a  man  that  knows  the 
worst  at  last  and  feels  that  the  next  turn  of  For- 
tune's wheel  must  carry  him  up  rather  than  down. 
"I've  said  all  I  have  to  say  on  that  subject.  I  didn't 
call  to  make  another  convert,  but  to  see  you." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  accent  on  the  last 
word  that  warned  her  to  change  the  subject. 

"What  excitement  we're  having  about  that  foot- 
ball game,"  she  remarked,  not  unconscious  of  her 
irrelevancy.  "They  say  there's  the  greatest  time 
over  there  you  ever  heard  of.  Some  of  the  men  had 
to  dismiss  their  classes,  and  the  college  meeting  in 
the  gymnasium  was  omitted." 

He  brushed  aside  the  subject  with  a  wave  of  his 


THE -WRITING   ON   THE   WALL    223 

hand  and  held  her  with  an  intense,  almost  mystic, 
gaze.  She  waited  in  a  strange  curiosity  and  excite- 
ment. 

"Last  night,"  he  said,  "I  rode  over  from  the  cap- 
ital on  my  wheel  after  midnight,  and  spent  the  time 
till  nearly  dawn  packing  up  my  furniture.  I'm 
going  to  make  a  new  start.  I  was  thinking  about  it 
all  the  time.  It  seemed  strange  to  know  that  I 
should  never  look  out  of  my  window  again  and  see 
the  university  where  I  have  worked  so  long  and 
had  such  dreams  of  an  ideal  republic.  At  first  it 
nearly  broke  my  heart,  but  gradually  I  came  to  see 
that  it  was  all  for  the  best.  The  place  is  too  nar- 
row. I  must  begin  at  the  other  end  and  work  among 
men  who  have  seen  more  of  life,  who  are  more  un- 
hampered by  tradition — the  great  mass  of  toilers. 
After  all,  that  is  the  ideal  university,  and  there  a 
man  can  get  a  hearing.  I  see  why  we  lost  the  elec- 
tion now,  but  I'll  not  go  into  that.  It's  enough  to 
say  that  we  scattered  our  fire  too  much,  and  con- 
fused our  followers  and  ourselves  with  a  multitude 
of  issues.  It  has  been  a  useful  lesson,  and,  for  my- 
self, I  feel  that  I  am  in  a  position  to  begin  all  over 
again  with  a  prospect  of  success.  I've  learned 
something  about  organization,  and  know  how  to  go 
about  it  now.  The  future  is  ours,  and  I  never  felt 
more  confident." 

In  spite  of  his  earnestness  he  stopped  to  smile  at 
her  expression,  and  startled  her  by  his  analysis. 

"You  don't  believe  in  me,"  he  said.  "You're 
even  sorry  for  me.  I'm  afraid  you  think  I'm  a  vi- 
sionary, but  I  tell  you  that  the  visionary  is  the  only 


224  THE   TORCH 

sane  man.  He  sees  the  real  things  more  clearly 
than  any  one  else.  Every  reformer  was  regarded  as 
a  visionary  until  his  dreams  became  realities.  We 
must  have  faith  in  the  tendencies  of  the  times,  just 
as  Washington  and  Lincoln  did,  and  mustn't  mind 
the  labels  they  attach  to  us.  Every  fight  for  liberty 
looks  forlorn  at  the  beginning,  but  that's  where  the 
glory  and  the  exhilaration  of  it  come  in.  I  want 
you  to  have  faith  in  me,  as  I  have  faith  in  myself. 
I  came  here  this  afternoon  to  ask  you  to  share  this 
struggle  with  me,  to  be  my  wife,  if  you  really  want 
to  do  something  in  the  world  that's  worth  the 
doing." 

"I'm  sure  you  overestimate  my  ideality,"  she  re- 
plied, touched  by  his  strange  unworldliness,  and  by 
his  assumption  that  his  change  of  fortune  could 
make  no  difference  with  her.  "There's  a  skeptical 
imp  way  down  in  my  heart  that  makes  me  doubt 
everything,  somehow." 

"Not  my  love  for  you?"  he  asked,  leaning  for- 
ward intently. 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  admitted,  "but  isn't  there  an- 
other side?" 

"You've  told  me  so  often  that  you  didn't  love 
me,"  he  declared,  "that  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
you  might." 

"It's  much  more  complicated  than  that,"  she 
said,  laughing  a  little  at  the  simple  analysis. 

Much  as  she  admired  his  bearing  in  adversity, 
she  knew  that  it  did  make  a  difference  with  her. 
She  respected  him  more  than  ever,  but  she  was  far- 
ther than  ever  before  from  the  possibility  of  marry- 


THE    WRITING   ON   THE   WALL    225 

ing  him.  His  enthusiasm  and  faith  seemed  noble, 
yet  simple  and  pathetic.  She  admitted  to  herself 
that  he  might  organize  an  army  of  visionaries  and 
be  the  leader  among  them,  but  she  did  not  think  that 
they  would  ever  be  in  a  majority  or  that  their  the- 
ories were  sound.  Somehow,  he  was  marked  with 
failure.  Just  as  Babington  could  not  love  a  woman 
that  was  not  rich  and  elegant  and  beautiful,  so  she 
could  not  love  an  unsuccessful  man.  In  her  heart 
pity  was  not  the  forerunner  of  love.  She  was  won- 
dering how  she  could  make  him  understand  once 
and  for  all  the  futility  of  his  hopes  when  he  spoke 
again. 

"Is  there  some  one  else?"  he  asked.  "Is  it — is 
it — ?"  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  pronounce  the 
name,  but  she  made  the  mistake  of  understanding 
him. 

"How  dare  you  assume  that  I  want  to  marry 
either  of  you?"  she  cried,  her  face  flaming  with 
sudden  anger. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  her,  his  eyes 
bright  with  an  anger  equal  to  her  own. 

"That  man  isn't  worthy  of  you,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"I  know  it  doesn't  come  with  a  very  good  grace 
from  me,  considering  the  circumstances,  but  I'm 
not  really  a  dog  in  the  manger.  I  don't  want  him 
to  lose  you  just  because  I  can't  have  you  myself.  I 
want  him  to  lose  you  because  he  isn't  worthy  of  you. 
He  isn't  worthy  of  the  position  he  holds  at  the  head 
of  this  great  university.  It  may  be  that  there's  a 
personal  bitterness  between  us.  I'll  not  deny  it. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise,  after  he  had  insulted  me 


226  THE   TORCH 

and  almost  trampled  me  down  under  his  horse's 
feet?  But  it's  not  that  which  makes  me  hate  him, 
so  much  as  his  bad  influence  in  the  university,  his 
holding  up  of  false  gods  for  the  students  to  wor- 
ship. They're  tricked  by  him  now,  but  it  won't  be 
forever.  I'll  save  them  yet.  The  time  will  come 
when  I  shall  dismiss  him  from  the  position  he  dis- 
graces to-day." 

As  he  said  these  extraordinary  words  she  was 
stirred  by  an  inward  emotion  of  incredulity  and 
mirth.  He  was  no  longer  pathetic  in  her  eyes;  he 
was  jealous,  unrestrained,  and  boastful.  What 
could  he  do,  defeated  in  his  political  hopes,  dis- 
missed from  the  university,  a  beaten  and  discredited 
man  ?  If  the  president  had  been  rude  to  him  on  the 
road,  doubtless  he  had  elicited  such  treatment  by 
some  exhibition  of  personal  animosity.  After  all, 
it  was  the  man  on  horseback,  rather  than  the  man 
on  foot,  that  appealed  most  to  her  imagination.  It 
was  the  president  who  delivered  the  blows,  the  pro- 
fessor who  talked  wildly  of  revenge.  Her  appreci- 
ation of  the  situation  enabled  her  to  smile,  though 
the  smile  was  cruel.  He  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand  and  she  arose. 

"Good  by,"  he  said.  "It  will  take  some  time  for 
you  to  see  that  I'm  right,  but  I'll  wait." 

"Yes,"  she  assented.    "You  must  give  me  time." 

"You  don't  believe  me,"  he  said,  suddenly  weary. 
"Good  by." 

As  he  left  the  room  she  realized  that  she  had 
done  what  all  his  enemies  could  not  do,  for  he 
walked  like  one  whose  spirit  was  broken.  He  had 


THE   WRITING   ON   THE   WALL    227 

actually  come  in  the  hope  that  she  would  marry 
him.  She  was  sorry  that  they  had  parted  in  anger, 
but  it  was  just  as  well  that  he  should  understand. 
The  scene  left  her  nervously  exhilarated,  with  no 
softness  in  her  mood.  He  had  scarcely  gone  before 
the  president  came  in.  She  greeted  him,  bright  with 
mischief. 

"Professor  Plow  has  just  made  such  an  interest- 
ing call.  He  disapproves  of  you  very  much,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  and  threatens  unspeakable  things." 

"For  example?"  he  queried,  apparently  much 
amused. 

"That  he  will  discharge  you  from  the  presidency. 
I  suppose  it's  on  the  principle  that  'one  good  turn 
deserves  another.' ' 

The  president  forced  a  responsive  smile,  though 
this  announcement,  following  on  the  trying  day 
through  which  he  had  passed,  was  strangely  dis- 
quieting. 

"Poor  Plow!  It's  natural  enough,  but  he'll  get 
over  it.  He  has  another  trade,  one  that  he  learned 
from  his  father,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  can 
hammer  out  a  very  respectable  living  if  he  only 
sticks  to  his  anvil." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  look. 

"No  doubt,"  she  echoed  coldly.  She  was  filled 
with  scorn  at  his  malicious  reference  to  his  rival's 
early  position  in  life.  His  smallness  was  much  more 
bitter  to  her  than  Plow's  open  jealousy  and  eccen- 
tric boast.  She  had  not  believed  him  capable  of 
such  an  unmanly  fleer  at  an  antagonist  who  was 
down,  and  wished  that  he  would  go.  She  had  lost 


228  THE   TORCH 

her  temper  and  quarreled  with  Plow,  but  her  pres- 
ent resentment  was  too  deep  for  such  an  outburst. 
She  could  not  forgive  him  for  hurting  himself  thus 
in  her  eyes,  nor  could  she  forgive  herself  for  caring 
so  much.  And  as  her  resentment  of  his  offense  was 
deeper,  so  her  punishment  was  more  relentless.  She 
detained  him  over  a  cup  of  tea,  and  used  familiar 
hospitality  as  a  means  of  torture.  Try  as  he  might, 
he  could  not  be  unconscious  of  the  scorn  that  lurked 
behind  her  cold  and  exquisite  courtesy.  He  felt  that 
she  treated  him  like  a  lackey,  but  though  he  raged 
inwardly  he  found  no  chance  to  protest.  No  pun- 
ishment could  have  been  more  cruelly  effective  than 
her  silent  condemnation  of  his  breeding,  and  he  went 
away  with  a  feeling  toward  her  that  was  akin  to 
hatred. 


CHAPTER   XX 

MORE   GAMES   THAN   ONE 

The  morning  of  the  football  game  dawned  clear 
and  sparkling,  and  a  holiday  feeling  pervaded  the 
university.  A  rumor  circulated  among  the  students 
to  the  effect  that  the  faculty  would  take  no  official 
action  in  regard  to  the  riot,  and  the  tension  was  re- 
lieved. The  students,  grateful  for  the  leniency 
shown  them,  began  to  take  a  certain  pride  in  the 
faculty's  stand  for  honest  athletics.  They  declared 
that  they  would  win,  even  against  the  team  of  pro- 
fessionals their  rivals  had  collected.  The  rival 
team's  supporters,  meanwhile,  encamped  in  the  cap- 
ital, were  congratulating  themselves  on  their  vic- 
tory over  corruption.  Their  protest  had  been 
heeded,  a  proof  of  guilt  in  their  opponents.  They 
declared  that  the  counter-charges  were  an  insult, 
and  that  they  would  not  take  off  a  man. 

News  of  the  self-righteous  obstinacy  of  the 
Washingtonians  spread  over  the  campus  at  Argos 
and  stung  the  undergraduate  body  to  fury.  They 
surrounded  the  team  as  it  sat  in  the  omnibus,  ready 
to  start  for  the  scene  of  action,  and  exhorted  their 
representatives  to  win,  or  die  in  the  attempt.  They 
pointed  out  the  Punic  faith  of  their  opponents ;  they 

229 


230  THE   TORCH 

reminded  the  players  that  this  game  would  break 
the  tie,  each  university  having  won  five  games  in  the 
past  ten  years.  Some  of  the  more  experienced,  who 
had  seen  the  Washingtonians  play,  climbed  up  on 
the  wheels  and  told  each  man  for  the  hundredth 
time  who  would  oppose  him  in  the  line-up,  and  just 
how  he  could  be  overcome.  It  was  commonly  said 
that  the  enemy  would  play  a  "dirty  game,"  and  that 
the  only  way  to  win  was  to  lay  them  out  with  cer- 
tain deft  blows. 

The  crowd  cheered  the  players  collectively  and 
individually.  They  asked  what  was  the  matter  with 
each  one,  and  replied  in  fervent  chorus  thai,  he  was 
all  right,  and  more  than  right.  They  sang  doggerel 
verses  to  popular  airs,  and  the  'bus  drew  away  amid 
a  frenzy  of  cheering  and  flag  waving,  the  bull- 
necked  trainer  standing  on  the  back  steps,  a  tower 
of  strength  and  encouragement. 

There  were  very  few  who  thought  of  Professor 
Plow  that  day;  the  atmosphere  of  athletic  excite- 
ment was  too  pervasive.  The  fever  penetrated 
even  into  the  studies  of  staid  professors  and  made 
their  pulses  leap  with  savage  emotion.  They,  too, 
hated  Washington  University.  They  were  jealous 
of  its  courses,  its  buildings,  its  endowments,  and 
they  criticized  its  low  standard  of  scholarship.  They 
said  that  students  dropped  from  Argos  found  an 
easy  entrance  to  Washington,  and  they  wished  to 
see  the  institution  humiliated,  rubbed  in  the  dust, 
downed.  Some  gentle  natures  refused  to  go  to  the 
contest  and  tried  to  forget  all  about  it,  but  on  the 
morning  of  the  game  they  were  reminded  of  the 


MORE   GAMES    THAN    ONE         231 

impending  struggle  by  the  empty  benches  in  the 
classroom  and  the  distant  cheering  of  the  truants. 
A  few  members  of  the  faculty  openly  condemned 
the  whole  thing,  but  the  majority  sided  passionately 
with  Argos,  believed  that  the  Washington  team  was 
composed  of  professionals,  in  short,  exalted  the 
event  into  a  moral  issue,  and  were  as  blindly  patri- 
otic as  the  noisiest  freshman. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  row  of  trolley 
cars  left  Argos  for  the  battle-field,  crowded  to  the 
doors.  They  were  decorated  with  the  university 
colors,  green  and  gold,  the  green  for  the  leaves  of 
rustling  corn,  the  gold  for  -the  ripe  ear.  The  town 
seemed  deserted.  In  the  silence  of  the  long  after- 
noon the  few  that  remained  almost  imagined  that 
they  could  hear  the  shouting  ten  miles  away.  They 
thrilled  with  hope  and  fear.  They  imagined  all 
sorts  of  casualties ;  broken  bones,  benches  falling  to 
the  ground,  encounters  between  the  constituents  of 
the  rival  institutions.  As  evening  came  on,  many 
of  them  gathered  at  the  telegraph  station,  or  kept 
the  telephone  busy  with  anxious  inquiries. 

Meanwhile  the  trolley  cars  had  sped  merrily  on 
their  way,  cheered  by  the  passer-by,  and  cheering  in 
turn  every  house  that  flaunted  the  university  ban- 
ner. Many  tallyhos,  driven  by  rich  students,  were 
already  rolling  through  the  streets  of  the  capital. 
People  on  the  sidewalk  turned  to  gaze  after  the  ex- 
cited young  men  and  women  with  a  smile  of  sym- 
pathy and  interest,  and  often  with  a  wistful  mem- 
ory of  past  days.  They  heard  the  blare  of  horns 
and  the  university  cheer.  They  saw  the  girls  decked 


232  THE   TORCH 

in  the  favorite  colors,  even  to  their  hats  and 
belts,  enormous  chrysanthemums  in  their  hands. 
There  were  other  spectators,  too,  laboring  men,  who 
looked  at  the  sight  with  a  slow  gaze  not  untouched 
by  dumb  resentment.  But  these  were  in  the  minor- 
ity. The  venal  shopkeepers  adorned  their  windows 
with  the  colors  of  both  universities.  The  very  girls 
behind  the  counters  wore  the  ribbon  they  thought 
most  becoming.  The  excitement  penetrated  every 
avenue  and  touched  dull  trade  with  a  magic  zest, 
for  even  the  truck-drivers  were  betting  with  each 
other  from  their  seats. 

At  the  field  the  excitement  was  concentrated,  and 
the  opposing  parties  were  more  evenly  divided. 
Twenty-five  thousand  people  sat  on  the  tiers  of 
benches,  expectant,  and  the  smoke  of  the  students' 
pipes  floated  over  their  heads,  as  from  some  smol- 
dering fire.  Babington  passed  to  his  seat,  attended 
by  a  volley  of  cheers.  His  leniency  in  regard  to  the 
rioters  made  amends  for  everything.  Besides,  he 
was  the  president,  and  the  students  felt  in  honor 
bound  to  cheer  their  chief  in  the  face  of  their  ene- 
mies. The  bright,  cool  sun  looked  down  on  bewil- 
dering masses  of  color  and  hills  of  white  faces.  The 
Washingtonians  on  one  side  of  the  field  and  the 
Argives  on  the  other  strove  to  excel  their  opponents 
in  raucous  cheering  and  loyal  hymns.  In  one  spot 
five  hundred  little  flags  waved  to  and  fro,  keeping 
time  to  the  music  of  the  band. 

Suddenly  a  roar  of  applause  burst  forth.  The 
whole  mass  of  Argive  supporters  arose  and  shouted 


MORE   GAMES   THAN    ONE         233 

as  their  athletes  came  streaming  through  the  gate 
and  spread  over  the  field  on  a  run.  In  a  moment  the 
air  was  dotted  with  flying  footballs.  Hoarse 
screams,  throaty  with  excitement,  greeted  a  success- 
ful attempt  to  kick  a  goal.  Players  rolled  over  each 
other  as  they  pursued  the  bounding  ovals.  Then  the 
whole  team  lined  up  and  charged  the  yet  imaginary 
enemy. 

"I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you,"  said  Lee  to 
Trumbull,  "that  this  event  gives  me  the  pleasure  of 
an  annual  emotional  debauch.  It  takes  but  a  slight 
effort  of  the  imagination  to  transform  this  whole 
multitude  into  togaed  Romans  and  that  group  of 
athletes  into  gladiators.  The  psychology  of  the 
thing  is  practically  the  same.  Just  see  those  miles 
of  red  brick  walls  crowding  about  the  inclosure  as 
though  they  would  look  in  on  the  game.  See  those 
black  fringes  of  penniless  humanity  on  the  nearer 
coping  and  chimneys." 

"I  always  say  I'll  never  go  to  another  game,"  his 
friend  remarked,  "but  when  the  day  draws  near  I 
steal  off  and  buy  a  ticket  and  postpone  my  reforma- 
tion for  another  year." 

"It  ought  to  be  enough  for  one  of  your  antique 
tastes,"  said  Lee,  "that  you  have  classical  precedent 
for  this  insanity.  Do  you  see  that  tall,  tow-headed 
young  animal  down  there?  That's  our  half-back, 
Dick  Delaney.  It  was  lucky  for  him  that  those  two 
men  were  disqualified.  He  was  only  a  substitute, 
but  now  he  has  made  the  team.  I  happen  to  have 
the  honor  of  knowing  him  personally.  His  father  is 


234  THE   TORCH 

a  butcher,  and  the  boy  murders  his  native  tongue 
in  the  same  nonchalant  manner  in  which  the  old 
man  cuts  you  off  a  chop." 

Another  roar  burst  forth,  this  time  from  the 
Washingtonians  across  the  field,  and  the  second 
group  of  young  giants  poured  into  the  arena  from 
the  opposite  gate.  It  seemed  to  the  anxious  Argives 
that  they  were  twice  as  big  and  twice  as  numerous 
as  their  own  men.  Though  they  knew  that  only 
eleven  men  could  play  on  each  side  at  the  same 
time,  yet  the  army  of  substitutes  gave  an  impression 
of  reenforcement  and  power.  The  team  from  Argos 
gathered  in  a  bunch  for  consultation,  leaving  their 
opponents  to  disport  themselves  as  they  had  done. 

At  last  the  practice  was  at  an  end.  The  captains 
matched  for  positions.  Washington  won  and  chose 
the  kick-off,  with  a  favoring  breeze  behind  them. 

The  ball  rose  high  in  the  air,  and  immediately  the 
whole  Washington  team  raced  down  the  field  as  in 
a  battle  charge.  Dick  Delaney  caught  the  oval  to 
his  breast,  the  interference  formed  in  a  moment,  and 
he  went  plunging  forward,  twenty,  thirty,  forty 
yards,  zigzagging  through  his  frantic  and  bewil- 
dered opponents.  He  outran  his  protectors,  and 
even  when  seized  he  dragged  himself  five  yards  far- 
ther toward  the  coveted  goal,  until  he  disappeared 
under  a  pile  of  men.  When  the  mass  was  untangled, 
the  half-back  got  up  and  shook  himself  like  a  great 
dog,  apparently  none  the  worse  for  his  rough  treat- 
ment. 

The  students  from  Argos  were  like  wild  men  in 
their  delight.  They  embraced  each  other,  they 


MORE  GAMES  THAN  ONE    235 

smashed  each  other's  hats,  they  danced  up  and 
down,  they  shouted  Dick's  name  in  chorus.  Yester- 
day he  was  an  unknown  quantity ;  to-day  there  was 
not  one  of  his  fellows  who  did  not  give  him  pas- 
sionate devotion.  There  was  a  vicious  determina- 
tion in  that  dash  that  set  the  pace  and  decided  the 
mental  attitude  of  the  teams.  The  Washingtonians, 
larger,  overconfident,  were  put  on  the  defensive  by 
the  first  play. 

There  were  moments  in  the  game  that  followed 
that  put  Lee's  whimsical  sophistry  to  a  severe 
test.  Men  were  taken  off  the  field  staggering  be- 
tween their  helpers,  their  heads  rolling  from  side  to 
side.  Charges  of  foul  play  were  hurled  back  and 
forth,  and  he  never  forgot  the  figure  of  a  girl  stand- 
ing and  waving  her  flag  while  she  screamed  "Kill 
him!  Kill  him!" 

"Hit  'em  again,  hit  'em  again,  hit  'em  again, 
harder !"  yelled  the  rooters  below  them. 

"Give  'em  the  ax,  give  'em  the  ax,  give  'em  the 
ax,  where?"  "Right  in  the  neck,  right  in  the  neck, 
right  in  the  neck,  there !"  came  the  fierce  response. 

When  the  first  half  ended  neither  side  had  scored. 
The  Washingtonians  were  stunned.  They  had  ex- 
pected a  walkover,  but  the  sturdy  team  from  Argos 
had  shown  more  cooperation  and  a  fury  that  would 
not  be  denied.  They  had  carried  the  ball  to  within 
a  foot  of  the  enemy's  goal,  and  only  the  expiration 
of  time  saved  a  touch-down.  Yet  the  disparity  in 
stature  between  the  teams  in  favor  of  Washington 
was  marked. 

President  Babington  was  vindicated,  and  during 


236  THE   TORCH 

the  rest  between  halves  the  students  cheered  him 
again  and  again.  Finally  he  arose  in  his  seat  and 
waved  his  hat  in  acknowledgment.  But  there  were 
many  present  who  thought  of  Everett  and  Lee,  the 
real  champions  of  honesty,  and  smiled  bitterly  to 
see  the  credit  given  to  another  and  so  easily  appro- 
priated. 

As  the  second  half  of  the  game  progressed  it  be- 
came apparent  that  the  Washingtonians  were  fight- 
ing for  time  and  hoping  for  a  tie.  Again  and  again 
they  were  forced  to  kick,  and  every  time  the  ball 
was  worked  back  nearer  and  nearer  their  goal. 
Darkness  'was  coming  on.  That  great  multitude  of 
people  sat  silent,  their  flags  drooping,  the  intensity 
of  their  interest  too  great  for  expression.  Only  the 
organized  rooters  on  each  side  kept  up  the  volleys 
of  rival  cheers,  though  not  a  few  were  voiceless 
from  exhaustion. 

Less  than  two  minutes  of  play  remained,  and  by 
common  consent  the  multitude  arose,  straining  their 
eyes  in  the  direction  of  that  begrimed  and  strug- 
gling mass.  The  Washingtonians  were  making  a 
last  desperate  stand  before  their  very  goal.  It  was 
too  dark  to  risk  a  drop  kick.  Again  Dick  Delaney 
took  the  ball  and  plunged  toward  the  line;  but  a 
hand  shot  up  and  the  ball  bounded  from  his  arms 
into  the  air.  In  another  moment  it  had  changed 
sides,  and  a  groan  was  wrenched  from  the  sup- 
porters of  the  State  University  when  they  realized 
that  the  fumble  had  probably  cost  them  the  game. 
All  Dick's  magnificent  daring  was  forgotten  by  his 


MORE   GAMES   THAN    ONE         237 

admirers  in  that  moment  of  bitter  disappointment, 
and  they  felt  that  he  had  no  excuse. 

Deliberately  the  full-back  of  the  Washington  team 
took  up  his  position  behind  the  posts  and  prepared 
to  kick  the  ball  out  of  danger.  Only  a  miracle 
could  save  the  game  for  Argos  now.  In  the  semi- 
darkness  the  punter  failed  to  locate  the  cross-bar  be- 
fore him.  The  ball  struck  it  a  glancing  blow  on  the 
under  side  and  then  plumped  downward  into  the 
arms  of  Dick  Delaney. 

Right  nobly  then  did  the  Argive  half-back  atone 
for  his  fumble.  His  arms  closed  about  the  sphere 
like  a  vise.  The  spectators  were  electrified  to  see  a 
shock-headed  young  giant  leap  into  the  air  as  he 
stepped  on  a  comrade's  bent  shoulder  and  hurdled 
the  line.  The  other  players  were  after  him  like  a 
shot,  and  then  he  was  down  in  the  dirt  beyond  the 
goal  with  ten  men  on  top  of  him  and  the  ball  hugged 
to  his  breast.  A  shrill  whistle  announced  the  expi- 
ratior  of  time,  and  the  game  was  won  for  Argos. 

It  was  never  known  who  struck  the  first  blow 
above  the  prostrate  player,  when  the  struggling 
mass  was  finally  untangled.  Both  sides  made 
charges,  and  the  men  of  Argos  claimed  that  their 
plucky  half-back  was  knocked  insensible  in  revenge 
for  his  victorious  leap.  The  line  of  policemen 
rushed  in  and  separated  the  combatants,  but  it  was 
President  Babington  who  strode  into  the  midst  of 
the  melee  and  helped  to  carry  the  limp  form  of  Dick 
Delaney  to  the  dressing-room. 

The  rooters  on  the  benches  poured  down  and 


238  THE    TORCH 

formed  into  a  procession.  They  marched  about  the 
inclosure,  singing,  dancing,  shouting  and  waving 
their  flags  to  the  music  of  the  band  in  front.  The 
fight  had  interrupted  an  attempt  to  kick  a  goal  from 
the  touch-down,  but  the  Argives  were  satisfied  with- 
out the  extra  point,  and  the  two  heroes  they  cheered 
most  wildly  were  "Irish  Dick"  and  President  Bab- 
ington. 

As  Lee  and  Trumbull  made  their  way  toward  the 
dressing-room  to  inquire  after  Dick  Delaney,  they 
saw  President  Babington  come  forth  smiling,  his 
hat  thrust  back  on  his  head,  looking  happy  and  deb- 
onair. Lee  was  reminded  of  the  time  he  had  first 
seen  him,  when  he  stepped  from  the  train  to  greet 
Plow.  There  was  the  same  attractive  expression  of 
almost  boyish  good  humor  and  enthusiasm.  They 
saw  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Captain 
Kip,  shake  hands  with  him  in  laughing  congratu- 
lation, and  heard  him  disclaim  either  credit  or  in- 
jury. 

Lee  smiled  scornfully  at  the  tableau  and  dragged 
his  friend  into  the  large  room  that  was  now  filled 
with  a  crowd  of  frantic  men.  They  caught  sight  of 
the  object  of  their  quest  standing  on  his  feet,  weep- 
ing weakly  for  joy,  while  he  received  the  congratu- 
lations of  his  admirers.  Suddenly  a  young  man 
sprang  upon  a  box,  his  face  blanched  with  excite- 
ment. 

"Fellows,"  he  cried,  "I  think  we  ought  to  show 
our  gratitude  for  this  great  victory  by  singing  the 
doxology!  Now,  everybody!" 

All  gathered  about  their  leader  and  sang  with  a 


MORE    GAMES    THAN    ONE         239 

will,  as  if  God  had  fought  on  their  side  as  He 
fought  for  Israel  at  Ajalon. 

The  two  professors  exchanged  a  look  of  incre- 
dulity and  wonder,  shocked  by  this  strange  passion 
of  victory. 

"Come  on,  George,"  Lee  said,  taking  his  friend 
by  the  arm.  "We're  too  old  for  this  crowd."  They 
went  out  into  the  twilight,  pursued  by  the  thunder- 
ous volume  of  song. 

"My  parallel  between  this  sort  of  thing  and  the 
ancients'  contests  is  even  closer  than  I  had  sup- 
posed," Lee  continued,  as  they  took  their  way  across 
the  soggy  field,  strewn  with  ruined  chrysanthemums, 
so  lately  the  scene  of  battle.  "Didn't  the  Greek  and 
Roman  athletes  pray  for  success  and  make  vows  to 
their  divinities?  There's  a  candidate  for  the  min- 
istry on  our  team  who  prays  for  victory  before 
every  game.  I  heard  some  of  the  students  boasting 
of  it.  And  they  didn't  even  know  that  it  was  im- 
pious to  sing  the  doxology  on  such  an  occasion! 
I'm  afraid  I'm  outgrowing  football  after  all.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  just  how  far  Babing- 
ton  is  responsible  for  that  mawkish  display.  I  actu- 
ally believe  he  would  have  joined  in  the  singing." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

THE    BATTLE    IS    JOINED 

Within  a  week  after  the  football  game  the  line  of 
cleavage  between  the  president's  foes  and  friends 
was  drawn  with  sufficient  clearness  to  enable  him 
to  estimate  his  resources  and  his  peril.  His  friends 
were :  in  primis,  his  standard-bearer,  Kate  Tupper 
by  name,  with  a  bag  of  money  and  a  thirst  for  the 
fray;  his  esquire,  Professor  Fyffe,  nimble  and  re- 
sourceful; a  majority  of  the  regents;  a  clear  ma- 
jority of  the  students. 

The  result  of  the  game  had  swung  undergraduate 
opinion  in  favor  of  the  president.  The  hero-wor- 
ship that  flourishes  eternally  in  the  hearts  of  the 
young  now  found  an  object  of  adoration.  The  pres- 
ident had  made  a  brave  stand  for  clean  athletics; 
he  had  endured  the  outbreak  of  indignation  with 
dignity  and  forbearance;  he  had  overlooked  and 
forgiven  the  vandalism  of  the  rioters;  and,  finally, 
it  was  he  who  rushed  into  the  fray  and  rescued  the 
athlete  who  won  the  great  game.  The  story  of  the 
rescue  grew  in  the  telling.  It  was  even  reported 
that  the  president  dealt  blows  right  and  left  with 
one  arm,  while  he  supported  Delaney  with  the  other. 
He  was  their  champion  of  high  principles,  their 

240 


THE   BATTLE    IS   JOINED          241 

athlete-orator  and  scholar,  the  greatest  man  in  the 
^tate. 

On  the  other  side  stood  a  motley  host,  without 
cooperation  and  as  yet  without  a  leader.  First, 
there  was  The  Times,  an  exponent  of  yellow  jour- 
nalism, advocating  the  rights  of  the  common  people 
to  the  great  benefit  of  its  own  circulation.  Then 
came  the  faculty  of  the  university,  many  of  whom, 
by  marrying,  had  given  hostages  to  Fortune  and 
dared  not  open  their  mouths  in  protest  lest  they 
should  take  the  bread  from  the  mouths  of  their 
wives  and  children.  On  this  side  also  stood  most  of 
the  students  who  had  taken  courses  with  Professor 
Plow,  but  they  were  as  one  to  five  compared  with 
the  adherents  of  the  president.  In  the  eastern 
states  the  best  and  most  conservative  newspapers 
sided  with  Plow,  not  because  they  approved  his 
political  opinions,  but  because  they  recognized  in 
him  a  champion  of  intellectual  freedom  in  the  uni- 
versity. But  these  attacks  from  a  distance  only 
drew  the  defenders  of  the  president  closer  together. 
They  were  resented  as  coming  from  the  effete  and 
degenerate  and  jealous  East. 

The  shock  of  the  first  encounter  was  over  and 
Babington  sat  upon  his  horse,  a  victor,  smiling 
scornfully  at  his  rival  in  the  dust.  Behind  him 
towered  his  citadel,  crowned  with  the  wealth  and 
respectability  of  the  state. 

The  first  college  meeting  in  the  gymnasium  after 
the  game  was  an  ovation  for  the  president.  Pro- 
fessor Fyffe  retold  the  story  of  the  now  popular 
ruling  of  the  faculty.  He  confessed  that  he  had 


242  THE   TORCH 

been  in  favor  of  allowing  the  two  suspected  men 
to  play.  His  enthusiasm  and  loyalty  had  blinded 
his  judgment  for  the  time;  but  the  president 
had  dared  to  prefer  the  right  to  the  expedient,  and 
had  won  the  day.  There  was  much  of  jocularity 
and  anecdote  in  the  professor's  speech.  His  confes- 
sion of  weakness  only  endeared  him  the  more  to  the 
majority  of  the  students.  They  told  each  other  that 
he  was  "one  of  the  boys"  and  "all  right."  When 
he  mentioned  the  name  of  the  plucky  half-back  the 
crowd  called  thunderously  for  "Irish"  until  Dick 
arose  in  his  seat,  grinning  and  embarrassed,  and 
awkwardly  bowed  his  acknowledgment. 

Babington  smiled  genially  down  on  the  tumult. 
He  was  not  greatly  concerned  that  the  faculty  rep- 
resentation on  the  platform  behind  him  was  smaller 
than  usual.  He  had  a  majority  of  the  regents  and 
apparently  all  the  students  on  his  side.  It  had  been 
his  policy  from  the  first  to  win  the  support  of  these 
two  elements  and  to  rule  the  faculty  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  Never  before  had  the  wisdom  of  this  policy 
been  so  impressively  vindicated.  His  attitude 
toward  the  teaching  force  of  the  university  had 
finally  become  like  that  of  a  hard-fisted  boss  toward 
a  gang  of  workmen. 

He  closed  the  meeting  with  one  of  his  happiest 
efforts.  It  was  like  the  conclusion  of  a  love  feast. 
He  reminded  his  hearers  that  athletics  had  an  hon- 
orable place  in  the  life  of  a  university,  but  that  the, 
place  was  subordinate.  They  must  learn  a  lesson 
from  the  Greeks,  who  tore  down  a  part  of  the  city 
wall  to  admit  the  victorious  athlete  but  built  it  up 


THE   BATTLE    IS   JOINED          243 

again  in  greater  dignity  and  beauty  than  ever;  and 
it  was  because  of  their  architects,  their  sculptors, 
their  poets  and  philosophers,  that  they  were  remem- 
bered to-day.  He  exhorted  them  to  put  away  all 
feeling  of  bitterness  toward  the  rival  university. 
Both  institutions  were  doing  the  same  work  in 
the  \vorld.  The  competition  must  be  manly,  healthy, 
and  mutually  stimulating.  A  winter  of  hard  work 
was  before  them,  and  they  must  now  concentrate 
their  efforts  upon  those  better  things,  the  things  that 
counted  most  in  the  long  run,  the  things  for  which 
they  had  come  to  the  university. 

As  Lee  sat  by  Professor  Everett's  fireplace  that 
evening  he  and  Mrs.  Everett  unburdened  their 
minds  to  their  mutual  satisfaction. 

"It's  a  relief  to  be  able  to  talk  freely  with  some 
one,"  he  remarked.  "I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story, 
Mrs.  Everett,  because  I  know  that  you'll  never 
get  it  from  the  professor.  In  the  first  place,  it  was 
Mr.  Everett  who  fought  the  battle  in  the  faculty  and 
finally  compelled  the  president  to  reverse  the  opin- 
ion he  had  expressed  in  the  committee  meeting  the 
night  before." 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied,  with  a  glance  of  indig- 
nant affection  at  her  embarrassed  husband. 

"Not  at  all,"  Everett  protested.  "If  I  led  the 
attack,  it  is  yet  true  that  I  could  not  have  won 
without  Lee  and  Stuart." 

"Oh,  we  just  worried  the  enemy  on  the  flanks 
with  light  cavalry,  dashes,"  Lee  declared.  "It  was 
your  husband  who  fired  the  heavy  guns  and  charged 
the  center.  But  what  does  Babington  do?  He 


244  THE   TORCH 

hides  and  is  afraid  to  punish  the  rioters.  Our  team 
happens  to  win,  and  the  president  walks  in  under 
the  protection  of  a  line  of  policemen  and  helps  to 
carry  Dick  Delaney  off  the  field.  Then  everything 
comes  his  way.  He  is  the  emperor  under  whose 
auspices  the  battle  was  fought.  He  gets  all  the 
credit  for  the  ruling  in  the  faculty  meeting;  his 
cowardice  in  regard  to  the  rioters  is  called  leniency ; 
and  his  action  on  the  field  is  elevated  into  a  daring 
rescue.  Finally,  to-day  at  the  meeting,  Fyffe  gets 
up  and  openly  gives  the  credit  of  the  ruling  to  the 
president,  without  once  mentioning  Mr.  Everett's 
name." 

"He  didn't!"  she  cried.  "The  nasty  little  crea- 
ture! Tom,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

The  professor  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair  and 
rumpled  his  hair  till  it  stood  up  on  his  head. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  just  Fyffe,  my  dear.  He's  try- 
ing to  feather  his  own  nest  by  selling  his  soul  for  a 
mess  of  red  pottage." 

Lee  looked  at  the  professor  with  affection. 

"That's  the  only  time  I  ever  heard  your  husband 
say  anything  against  any  one,  Mrs.  Everett.  I'll 
tell  you  why  he  never  explained  his  part  in  this 
matter  and  why  he  doesn't  care  if  another  gets  the 
credit.  It's  because  he's  just  like  Aristides,  and  a 
living  example  of  that  line  in  ^schylus :  For  he 
does  not  wish  to  seem  the  best,  but  to  be  the  best." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,"  the  professor  pro- 
tested, greatly  amused.  "However,  I'm  glad  you 
haven't  forgotten  your  classics." 

"But  it's  true,"  his  wife  declared.    "I  don't  have 


THE   BATTLE   IS   JOINED          245 

to  know  Greek  to  know  that.  And  as  for  Mr.  Bab- 
ington,  you  know  I  despised  him  from  the  first.  I 
think  this  proves  I  was  right." 

Mr.  Everett  regarded  the  two  confederates  with 
a  troubled  look  in  which  there  was  an  element  of 
sternness. 

"I  shall  have  to  leave  you,"  he  said,  "to  settle  the 
question  for  yourselves,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  Lee.  I 
have  a  lot  of  proof  waiting  for  me  in  my  study." 

An  hour  later  Lee  met  Captain  Kip  on  the  street 
and  they  walked  some  distance  together. 

"That  was  a  pretty  play  of  Fyffe's  this  morning," 
the  professor  began. 

The  little  captain  twirled  his  mustache  and 
snorted.  "If  that  man  were  in  the  army  he 
wouldn't  be  spoken  to.  We  don't  tolerate  liars  in 
the  army." 

"I  can't  see  that  Babington  is  much  better,"  Lee 
remarked.  "He  was  willing  to  take  all  the  credit. 
The  two  played  into  each  other's  hands." 

Kip  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"It's  not  my  business  to  criticize  the  president. 
I'm  here  to  obey  his  orders." 

"Oh,  come,"  Lee  said,  stung  to  irritation,  "you 
don't  mean  to  say  your  conception  of  duty  is  as 
strict  as  all  that." 

"I  can't  expect  a  civilian  to  understand  a  sol- 
dier's conception  of  duty,"  Kip  retorted,  his  figure 
stiffening. 

"No,  indeed,"  Lee  returned  lightly.  "My  way 
lies  down  this  street.  Good  night." 

He  felt  that  it  would  have  taken  very  little  more 


246  THE   TORCH 

to  involve  him  in  a  senseless  quarrel  with  the  cap- 
tain, and  was  thankful  for  the  opportune  parting  of 
their  ways.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  rather  admired 
Kip,  and  he  wondered  at  his  sudden  burst  of  scorn. 
Then  he  remembered  the  scene  after  the  game ;  Kip 
and  Babington,  and  Susanne  between  them. 

"So  he's  her  latest  victim,"  he  mused.  "I  don't 
wonder  he  couldn't  trust  himself  to  speak  of  the 
president.  Perhaps  he  regards  me  as  a  rival,  too.  I 
wish  I  were." 

He  was  surprised  to  find  Trumbull  in  possession 
of  an  arm-chair  before  his  fire,  puffing  lazily  at  a 
pipe. 

"You  have  great  confidence  in  human  nature, 
Nicholas,"  his  friend  remarked.  "I  found  the  door 
unlocked  and  walked  right  in.  I  took  the  liberty  of 
replenishing  the  fire  and  making  myself  comforta- 
ble. You  don't  object  to  tobacco  smoke,  do  you?" 

There  was  a  light  in  the  speaker's  eyes  that  be- 
lied his  indifferent  attitude  and  attracted  Lee's  at- 
tention. He  put  on  his  glasses  and  regarded  his 
visitor  keenly. 

"You're  all  agog  with  something,  George,"  he 
declared.  "What's  up?  You're  not  like  yourself." 

Trumbull  straightened  himself  suddenly. 

"I'm  going  to  resign  and  get  out  of  here.  That's 
what's  up." 

"No !"  Lee  cried  aghast.    "What  for  ?" 

"Because  of  the  shabby  way  Babington  has 
treated  Plow."  *  Trumbull  brought  his  fist  down  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  and  glared  at  his  friend  as  if 
he  were  the  offender.  Lee  reached  for  his  pipe  and 


THE   BATTLE   IS   JOINED          247 

filled  it  slowly,  looking  at  the  archaeologist  the  while 
with  a  speculative  eye.  Then  he  threw  himself  into 
a  chair  and  stretched  out  his  long  legs  to  the  fire. 

"I  thought  you  were  an  admirer  of  the  presi- 
dent," he  said.  "This  is  like  a  clap  of  thunder  in 
a  clear  sky." 

"I  never  admired  him,"  Trumbull  declared  fierce- 
ly. Slow  to  condemn,  he  was  relentless  and  im- 
movable when  once  his  mind  was  made  up.  "I'm 
going  to  tell  Babington  once  for  all  what  I  think  of 
him.  If  his  action  goes  without  protest  it  will  es- 
tablish a  precedent  that  will  ruin  the  tone  of  the 
university.  It  will  reduce  the  whole  faculty  to  a 
gang  of  timid  servants,  afraid  of  opening  their 
mouths  for  fear  of  losing  their  positions." 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  Lee  mused,  "but  the 
place  won't  be  the  same  without  you.  I  prefer  to 
stay  and  see  the  thing  through.  I'm  not  going  to 
resign,  and  I'm  not  going  to  be  hypnotized  either. 
There's  no  reason  for  biting  off  your  nose  to  spite 
your  face;  but  your  nose  is  your  own.  Mine  is  too 
important  a  part  of  my  anatomy  to  be  lost  in  that 
reckless  fashion."  He  leaned  forward  and  fixed 
his  friend  with  a  glance  of  sudden  amusement. 
"How  about  those  coins  you  were  going  to  give  to 
the  Museum?" 

"They're  speeding  eastward  in  charge  of  the 
Wells-Fargo,"  Trumbull  answered  with  a  grin.  "I 
sha'n't  be  ready  to  go  myself  for  a  week  or  so." 

Lee  saw  the  uselessness  of  trying  to  persuade  him 
to  change  his  purpose,  now  that  the  coins  were  gone. 


248  THE   TORCH 

"This  will  break  Babington's  heart,"  he  said, 
laughing.  "He'll  never  get  over  it." 

"I  didn't  promise  them  definitely,"  Trumbull  de- 
clared. 

"Only  provisionally,  pending  your  examination 
of  the  president's  character?  And  how  about  that 
beautiful  Miss  Hathaway  whom  I  selected  for  your 
wife?  You're  not  going  to  leave  her  behind,  are 
you?" 

"I'll  leave  her  for  you,  Nicholas ;  so  set  your  mind 
at  rest  on  that  subject.  You've  got  a  chance  now. 
Of  course  I  could  have  taken  her  from  you  had  I 
chosen  to  do  so,  but  I  shall  sacrifice  her  on  the  altar 
of  friendship ;  that  is,  if  you're  sure  you  don't  pre- 
fer the  widow." 

"I  regret  your  ingratitude  to  me,"  Lee  retorted, 
"and  your  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  beautiful.  I 
had  expected  to  congratulate  you  before  this,  but 
now  I  wash  my  hands  of  you  entirely.  For  all  I 
care  you  can  drag  out  your  miserable  and  lonely 
existence  uncheered  by  wife  and  children.  But  be- 
fore you  go  you  must  let  us  give  you  a  send-off  at 
the  Blue  Buffalo." 

That  evening  the  president  sat  long  with  Mrs. 
Tupper. 

"The  seven  days'  wonder  is  beginning  to  lose 
its  interest,"  he  declared.  "Within  the  last  two 
days  The  Times  has  let  up  on  me  for  lack  of  ma- 
terial. Plow  has  disappeared,  though  I  hear  he's 
living  somewhere  in  the  capital.  At  all  events,  he 
doesn't  say  anything  more,  and  that's  all  I  ask." 


THE   BATTLE   IS   JOINED          249 

"He  can't;  he  don't  dare  to,"  she  replied  tri- 
umphantly. "You  was  right,  Professor;  you  was 
right  all  the  time.  You  lopped  off  his  head  at  the 
right  time."  She  looked  at  him  proudly,  and  a  flut- 
tering anxiety  caused  her  hands  to  tremble.  "I  was 
afraid  you  hurt  yourself  at  that  wicked  football 
game,"  she  cried.  "I  call  it  murder." 

He  was  not  displeased  at  her  anxiety,  and  his 
chest  expanded. 

"Oh,  nobody  was  killed,  Mrs.  Tupper.  It  was 
just  a  little  fracas,  like  many  I  used  to  engage  in 
long  ago;  very  much  exaggerated,  too,  I'm  bound 
to  say." 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  voice  shrilled  with  ex- 
citement. 

"I  hear  you  knocked  some  of  'em  down.  Good 
for  'em,  the  murderers — served  'em  right !" 

The  president  laughed,  and  did  not  deny  the  re- 
port. When  he  went  home  that  night  he  felt  that 
the  battle  was  as  good  as  won.  The  excitement 
was  dying  down,  and  the  whole  affair  would  soon 
be  forgotten.  There  were  only  two  things  that 
marred  his  content :  Mrs.  Tupper  would  make  no 
definite  promise  of  future  donations,  and  the  bar- 
rier between  Mrs.  Van  Sant  and  himself  had  not 
been  removed  by  her  momentary  relenting  after  the 
game.  He  was  not  jealous  of  any  of  her  admirers, 
though  he  had  a  vague  suspicion  that  she  had  con- 
gratulated him  to  distress  the  captain.  In  spite  of 
his  contempt  for  Plow,  he  alone  had  seemed  a  pos- 
sible rival.  He  believed  that  she  was  merely  flirt- 
ing with  Kip  and  Lee.  He  was  startled  by  a  sud- 


250  THE   TORCH 

den  wonder  at  the  courage  with  which  he  had 
swept  his  rival  from  his  path.  But  what  was  the 
meaning  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  continued  reserve? 
Why  should  she  take  his  remark  concerning  Plow's 
trade  so  seriously?  His  resentment  at  her  treat- 
ment of  him  that  day  still  continued. 

He  was  more  nearly  sure  that  he  wanted  to  be  able 
to  marry  her  than  that  he  wanted  to  marry  her.  In 
his  present  mood  he  did  not  think  very  much  of 
love.  This  last  ideal  began  to  grow  thin  and  spec- 
tral. He  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  her  house 
as  he  passed  by,  and  the  old  desire  to  possess  her 
surged  up  again  in  his  heart.  He  was  never  more 
conscious  of  her  fascination  than  in  that  moment 
of  brutal  impulse.  He  had  beaten  down  his  rival; 
he  would  like  to  carry  her  off  by  force. 

His  sister  was  waiting  for  him  when  he  entered 
the  house. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  sit  up  for  me,  Carrie,"  he 
said  irritably.  He  felt  badgered  at  times  by  her 
loving  attentions. 

"I  wanted  to  read  anyhow,"  she  explained,  meek- 
ly deceptive.  "I  suppose  you'll  be  having  a  wife 
to  sit  up  for  you  some  day,  Henry.  Will  it  be  very 
soon?" 

"Don't  borrow  trouble,"  he  answered,  not  un- 
kindly. "But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing;  you  shall 
know  of  any  such  event  before  the  reporters  do.  I 
promise  you  that  scoop." 

The  evening  mail  was  piled  neatly  on  his  desk 
and  he  turned  it  over  indifferently,  still  absorbed 
in  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  There  were  three 


THE   BATTLE   IS   JOINED          251 

letters  of  no  great  importance,  but  the  fourth  was 
like  a  slap  in  the  face  and  caused  him  to  sit  rigid : 

"Henry  Babington,  Ph.  D.,  LL.  D.,  President  of 

the  University: 

Dear  Sir — It  is  with  extreme  regret  that  I  find 
myself  forced  to  tender  my  resignation  from  the 
chair  of  European  history,  to  take  effect  at  the  end 
of  the  present  academic  term.  This  regret  is 
caused,  not  so  much  by  the  breaking  of  old  ties, 
painful  as  that  break  must  be,  but  by  the  fact  that 
I  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when  a  professor  can 
not  teach  the  truth  as  he  sees  it  in  this  university 
without  risking  ignominious  dismissal.  It  is  beside 
the  question  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  certain 
things  from  Professor  Plow's  point  of  view.  I 
have  read  his  self-vindication  in  the  papers  and 
your  own  disingenuous  reply.  It  is  impossible  for 
me  to  remain  in  the  university  while  the  present 
policy  of  intimidation  prevails,  and  I  feel  it  my 
imperative  duty  to  protest  by  taking  the  step  indi- 
cated in  this  letter.  Very  sincerely  yours, 

GEORGE  ROBISON  STUART. 

Sixteenth  Nov.,  1900." 

Fury  and  not  hesitation  held  the  president  rigid 
in  his  chair  while  he  read  this  communication  a 
second  time.  Then  he  flung  it  contemptuously 
aside.  His  first  reply  was  discarded.  It  was  far 
too  long  for  the  effect  he  intended,  and  was  blotted 
by  the  spluttering  of  his  nervously  driven  pen.  He 
remembered  the  chilling  effect  of  a  typewritten  let- 


252  THE   TORCH 

ter,  and,  going  over  to  the  machine,  he  pounded  out 
the  following  retort: 

"i6th  Nov.,  1900. 
Geo.  R.  Stuart,  Esq. : 

Dear  Sir — Your  communication  of  this  date  is 
at    hand    and    contents    noted.     Your    resignation 
from  the  chair  of  European  history  is  hereby  ac- 
cepted, to  take  effect  immediately.     Yours  truly, 
HENRY  BABINGTON,  President." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

VOLUNTEERS 

When  Professor  George  Robison  Stuart  went  to 
the  stake  for  his  opinions  he  went  in  style.  He 
had  taken  a  week  to  consider  the  manner  in  which 
he  should  head  the  procession  of  martyrs,  and 
truly  nothing  was  lacking  of  pomp,  threnody,  eulo- 
gium  and  advertisement. 

Up  to  this  time  no  one  had  supposed  Stuart  ca- 
pable of  heroism,  and  for  this  very  reason  the  resig- 
nation of  no  other  professor  would  have  caused  an 
equal  sensation.  All  his  acts  hitherto  seemed  to 
have  been  dictated  by  self-interest.  He  had  mar- 
ried a  rich  woman,  he  had  forced  one  of  his  text- 
books of  history  into  every  high  school  of  the  state, 
and  he  managed  to  be  quoted  frequently  as  a  critic 
of  contemporaneous  European  events.  His  very 
unpopularity  made  him  a  marked  man.  The  com- 
munity resented  his  refusal  to  take  out  naturaliza- 
tion papers,  though  he  had  lived  in  America  since 
his  fifteenth  year,  had  been  educated  in  an  Amer- 
ican college,  had  married  an  American  wife,  and 
was  now  an  employe,  by  virtue  of  his  position  in  a 
state  university,  of  the  government  he  despised. 

Students  who  found  their  way  into  his  house  took 
253 


254  THE   TORCH 

umbrage  at  the  pictures  of  the  queen,  of  the  British 
navy,  of  Lord  Kitchener,  of  Oxford  University, 
which  adorned  the  walls  of  his  study ;  and  they  re- 
ported conversations  in  which  the  culture  of  Eng- 
lish scholarship  and  the  severity  of  Scotch  training 
were  contrasted  with  the  slipshod  crudity  of  Amer- 
can  universities. 

President  Babington  disliked  Stuart  at  first  sight, 
and  was  disliked  in  turn.  For  once,  the  Scotchman 
departed  from  his  usual  thrifty  habit  of  mind  and 
gave  as  mucj?,  or  more,  than  he  received.  During 
the  past  year  the  two  men  had  crossed  swords  sev- 
eral times,  and  the  historian's  point  inflicted  the 
sharper  wound.  There  was  something  in  his  atti- 
tude of  superiority  peculiarly  maddening  to  a 
man  of  Babington's  temperament.  The  president's 
knowledge  of  Stuart's  general  unpopularity  enabled 
him  to  indulge  his  long  grudge  and  sudden  fury 
without  fear  of  consequences.  He  even  felt  that 
his  action  would  touch  the  patriotism  of  the  uni- 
versity constituents. 

Professor  Plow  could  have  thrown  a  light  on 
the  causes  of  Stuart's  resignation  had  he  chosen  to 
make  public  a  letter  that  he  received  from  his  old 
colleague  about  this  time. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  it  read,  "I  have  given  you  a 
good  send-off  and  I  write  this  letter  of  farewell  to 
bid  you  Godspeed.  Of  course,  I  was  glad  to  give 
Babington  a  fall  in  your  behalf,  and  I  hope  it  will 
start  the  ball  a-rolling.  No  one  knows  better  than 
you  that  I  meant  every  word  I  said  in  my  letter  of 
resignation;  but,  that  you  may  not  fear  the  shot 


VOLUNTEERS  255 

will  prove  a  boomerang  to  myself,  I  wish  tO'tell  you 
that  I  have  been  thinking  for  some  years  of  retir- 
ing. I  am  anxious  to  go  back  to  the  old  country 
and  devote  the  rest  of  my  life  to  literature  and  his- 
torical research.  Here  I  am,  past  fifty,  with  my 
magnum  opus  yet  unwritten,  and  the  work  will 
never  see  the  light  unless  I  shall  have  constant  ac- 
cess to  the  Bodleian  Library  and  the  records  of  the 
British  Museum.  Besides,  the  gap  between  the  un- 
dergraduates and  myself  is  becoming  wide.  I  be- 
gin to  grow  weary  of  the  recurring  waves  of  crude 
young  people  and  am  not  sure  that  I  do  not  hate 
them.  I  am  glad  to  make  the  occasion  of  my  resig- 
nation appear  the  cause,  and  it  is,  after  all,  the  im- 
mediate cause. 

You  know  that  it  has  not  been  necessary  for  me 
to  teach  these  ten  years.  In  my  own  country  men 
know  when  to  retire  and  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their 
labors.  I  hope  that  my  long  residence  here  has  not 
imbued  me  with  the  insatiable  American  greed  for 
gain,  that  I  have  not  forgotten  the  quod  satis  est. 
I  was  about  to  put  off  the  harness  anyhow,  though 
no  one  need  know  that  but  you  and  me.  I  don't 
know  what  you  are  up  to,  but  feel  sure  that  you  are 
planning  a  long  hunt.  That  success  may  crown 
your  efforts,  and  that  you  may  one  day  pay  the  cad 
back  in  his  own  coin,  is  the  hope  of 
Your  sincere  friend, 

GEORGE  ROBISON  STUART." 

Though  the   existence  of  this  letter  was  never 
known  except  to  the  writer  and  the  recipient,  yet 


256  THE   TORCH 

the  real  cause  of  the  resignation  was  suspected  by 
the  few  that  were  best  acquainted  with  Stuart's 
disposition  and  circumstances.  They  knew  he  had 
nothing  to  lose,  and  yet  they  did  him  the  justice  to 
believe  that  his  championship  of  intellectual  liberty 
was  sincere.  More  than  once,  in  the  class-room,  he 
had  drawn  a  comparison  between  the  freedom  of 
thought  and  discussion  in  the  medieval  universities 
and  the  repression  and  autocracy  of  certain  Ameri- 
can institutions.  He  had  even  turned  Plow's 
thoughts  in  this  direction,  for  the  political  econo- 
mist was  no  great  student  of  the  history  of  educa- 
tion. Babington,  too,  had  heard  of  these  general 
strictures,  and  had  suspected  a  personal  application. 

To  the  world  at  large  the  cause  of  Stuart's  resig- 
nation was  that  stated  in  his  letter,  and  no  other. 
The  Times  reproduced  his  portrait,  printed  his  bi- 
ography, his  degrees,  and  the  titles  of  his  books. 
Miss  Wiley  could  have  told  that  the  facts  were 
furnished  by  the  professor  himself  at  his  own  voli- 
tion, together  with  a  duplicate  of  his  letter  of  resig- 
nation and  Babington's  curt  reply ;  but  she,  too,  had 
her  reasons  for  silence.  It  suited  her  purpose  to 
give  the  man  she  had  hitherto  hated  a  halo  of  mar- 
tyrdom. Thus,  after  a  pause  to  take  breath,  The 
Times  returned  to  the  Babington  baiting  with  re- 
newed vigor.  Stuart  went  away  with  colors  flying, 
after  leaving  a  year's  subscription  with  The  Times 
that  he  might  enjoy  reading  of  the  conflict  he  had 
precipitated. 

Every  move  of  the  struggle  thus  begun  was  fit 
news  for  the  Associated  Press.  Educated  men  and 


VOLUNTEERS  257 

teachers  all  over  the  country  suddenly  felt  a  per- 
sonal interest ;  everywhere  papers  bristled  with  mili- 
tant letters  and  editorials.  Plow  and  Stuart  gained 
national  repute.  Professors  had  been  similarly  dis- 
charged before  without  creating  more  than  a  ripple 
of  comment.  This  was  the  first  time  that  such  a 
dismissal  was  followed  by  an  openly  sympathetic 
resignation. 

It  was  felt  that  there  was  something  indecent  in 
the  manner  in  which  these  two  men  of  dignity  and 
position  had  been  booted  through  the  door.  Irre- 
sponsible wits  might  remark  that  they  now  sat  on 
the  fence  outside  and  exhibited  the  mark  of  the 
boot  to  passers-by,  but  the  majority  believed  that 
a  summons  to  a  battle  for  liberty  had  been  sounded 
by  two  men  of  heroic  fiber.  Their  eyes  were 
opened  for  the  first  time  to  this  new  menace  of 
democracy,  a  menace  growing  out  of  the  centraliza- 
tion of  power  since  the  civil  war,  and  of  a  piece 
with  industrial  and  legislative  despotism.  There 
was  scarcely  a  teacher  who  failed  to  see  that  a  like 
thing  might  happen  to  him.  Professors  in  eastern 
universities  wrote  and  published  letters  in  which 
they  advised  young  men  not  to  take  the  position 
made  vacant  at  Argos.  But  young  doctors  of 
philosophy  were  more  numerous  than  three-thou- 
sand-dollar salaries,  and  Babington  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  filling  Stuart's  place,  as  he  had  filled  Plow's, 
with  a  specialist  who  would  take  a  hint  from  the 
fate  of  his  predecessor. 

Another  fortnight  went  by,  and  then  two  more 
shots  were  fired  simultaneously,  this  time  by  Doctor 


258  THE   TORCH 

George  Trumbull,  assistant  professor  of  Greek, 
and  Maltby  Clark,  professor  of  mathematics.  In 
both  cases  Babington  flung  back  his  curt  reply,  now 
a  fixed  formula,  but  though  the  wording  in  each  let- 
ter was  the  same,  he  wrote  them  with  very  different 
emotions. 

Trumbull  was  the  last  man  from  whom  he  had 
expected  such  a  step.  He  had  always  treated  the 
young  archaeologist  with  peculiar  consideration,  and 
had  supposed  that  this  attitude  of  his  would 
cause  Trumbull  to  give  a  number  of  his  Greek 
gravestones  and  coins  to  the  university  museum. 
Now  he  wished  that  he  had  given  him  a  full  pro- 
fessorship the  previous  June.  He  even  contem- 
plated making  overtures  at  this  late  date,  but  the 
letter  of  resignation  was  too  defiant  and  critical  to 
admit  of  a  reconciliation.  The  archaeologist's  ac- 
tion was  based  upon  a  sympathy  with  Plow,  and  the 
president  felt  personally  affronted  and  aggrieved. 
Of  all  the  younger  teachers  he  had  liked  Trumbull 
best,  largely  because  of  his  wealth  and  beneficent 
potentialities.  This  was  the  kind  of  man  he  liked 
to  see  in  the  faculty.  He  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  Trumbull's  attitude  toward  the  vagaries  of  a 
plebeian  like  Plow  would  be  the  same  as  his  own. 

Maltby  Clark  was  a  very  different  kind  of  man, 
and  Babington  was  not  sorry  to  see  him  go.  He 
was  a  New  Englander,  past  middle  life,  conscien- 
tious, dry,  unimaginative,  and  old-fashioned.  The 
president  could  scarcely  be  said  to  know  him  per- 
sonally, for  that  New  England  crust  had  never 
thawed  in  his  presence.  The  professor  was  not  a 


VOLUNTEERS  259 

man  of  modern  training.  He  had  never  taken  a 
Ph.  D.  in  Germany,  and  had  begun  his  teaching 
career  before  that  degree  was  given  in  the  Amer- 
ican universities.  At  the  inception  of  the  State 
University,  some  thirty  years  before,  Clark  was 
teaching  mathematics  in  the  high  school  in  the 
capital.  He  was  appointed  professor  of  mathe- 
matics in  the  new  institution  and  now  he  had  seven 
assistants  in  the  work,  every  one  of  whom  was  a 
product  of  the  new  discipline.  People  who  were 
wont  to  say  that  he  was  less  able  as  a  mathemati- 
cian than  several  of  his  subordinates  were  yet  com- 
pelled to  admit  that  no  one  knew  this  better  than 
Clark  himself.  The  professor's  most  conspicuous 
trait  was  his  power  of  impersonal  judgment.  He 
chose  the  strongest  men  he  could  get,  and  did  not 
fear  the  comparison.  His  devotion  to  the  cause 
of  education  was  too  great  for  personal  vanity. 
Thus,  while  personally  the  least  able  specialist 
among  the  full  professors,  he  had  built  up  the 
strongest  department  in  the  university. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  his  letter  of 
resignation  appeared  with  Trumbull's  in  The  Times 
Professor  Plow  came  knocking  at  his  door.  Clark 
opened  it  himself,  his  sleeves  rolled  up  to  his  el- 
bows, a  hammer  in  his  hand. 

"Clark,"  said  the  visitor,  shaking  the  flakes  of  the 
first  snowstorm  from  his  hat,  "I  wonder  you  don't 
hit  me  with  that  hammer  instead  of  shaking  hands 
with  me.  I  wonder  you  can  look  so  calmly  at  the 
cause  of  your  misfortune." 

"Not  misfortune,"    said   the  other,    leading  the 


260  THE   TORCH 

way  into  the  parlor.  "Sit  down,  if  you  can  find  a 
place.  You  see  we're  moving.  I'm  just  packing 
my  books." 

Plow  seated  himself  on  a  dry-goods  box  and  sur- 
veyed the  disordered  room  with  a  melancholy  face. 
A  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the  grate  and  a 
shaded  lamp  stood  on  the  mantel,  but,  despite  the 
light  and  warmth,  the  vision  of  falling  snow  in  the 
twilight  outside  combined  with  the  confusion  with- 
in to  produce  an  impression  of  desolation. 

Mrs.  Clark,  attracted  by  the  sound  of  Plow's 
hearty  voice,  came  into  the  room  and  greeted  him 
quietly.  She  seemed  more  like  her  husband's  sis- 
ter than  his  wife,  so  akin  were  they  in  expression 
and  personality.  The  lines  of  her  thin  lips  were 
both  sweet  and  severe,  and  her  eyes,  like  his,  had 
the  clarity  of  innocence  and  intellect.  In  spite  of 
her  family  of  five  children,  there  was  something 
virginal  in  her  appearance. 

"Mrs.  Clark,"  said  Plow  ruefully,  "I  can't  help 
thinking  of  the  many  times  I  have  sat  with  you 
and  your  good  husband  in  this  room,  and  now  this 
break-up  goes  to  my  heart.  I  was  just  saying  that 
I  feel  responsible." 

She  winced  slightly  at  his  reference  to  the  past, 
but  smiled  reassuringly. 

"We  couldn't  do  otherwise,"  she  replied,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  box  and  smoothing  her  apron  with 
her  thin,  white  hand.  "You're  not  responsible,  Mr. 
Plow.  If  you  hadn't  brought  this  question  to  a 
head  some  one  else  would  have  done  so  in  time. 
The  logic  of  events  has  compelled  us  to  take  sides." 


VOLUNTEERS  261 

Clark  continued  to  remove  the  books  from  the 
shelves,  wrapping  them  in  old  copies  of  The  Spring- 
field Republican  and  The  New  York  Evening  Post, 
the  exponents  of  his  political  creed. 

"The  war  has  begun,"  he  remarked  quietly. 
"You  didn't  think  we  wouldn't  enlist,  did  you, 
Plow?" 

"That's  just  what  I  didn't  expect.  The  married 
men  don't  come  out  at  the  first  call  for  volunteers. 
It's  for  young  bachelors  like  myself  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  the  battle.  Stuart  and  Trumbull  didn't 
make  any  sacrifice,  but  you — if  I'd  known  what 
you  were  up  to  I'd  have  come  around  here  before 
this  and  put  a  veto  on  it." 

"It  would  have  done  no  good  to  protest,"  the 
professor  replied,  with  his  literal  precision  of  man- 
ner. "These  other  circumstances  you  mention  are 
mere  accidents,  and  do  not  affect  the  main  ques- 
tion. It  makes  no  difference  that  Stuart  and  Trum- 
bull are  well  off,  and  that  Stuart  may  have  had 
other  plans.  They,  too,  have  struck  a  blow  for 
principle,  I  do  not  doubt.  We  have  counted  the 
cost  and  decided  that  it  must  be  paid." 

"There's  the  Puritan  speaking,"  said  Plow. 
"Didn't  you  have  an  ancestor  who  fought  at  Bunker 
Hill,  or  some  such  place,  at  the  very  time  my  fore- 
fathers were  hoeing  potatoes  in  Ireland  ?" 

"Stonington,"  the  professor  corrected.  "And 
that's  where  we're  going,  back  to  the  old  farm. 
It's  not  very  productive,  but  we  can  manage  to 
make  a  living  until  something  turns  up.  I  may 


262  THE   TORCH 

open  a  school.  Things  aren't  so  bad.  Two  of  my 
sons  are  self-supporting,  as  you  know." 

"You'll  come  back  here  some  day,"  Plow  prom- 
ised, fixing  his  friend  with  his  bright,  peculiar  eyes, 
"or  get  a  better  place." 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  heart  misgave  him,  for  he 
knew  that  Clark's  chance  of  a  call  to  another  uni- 
versity was  slim  indeed.  He  belonged  to  the  older 
school  of  college  professors,  unworldly,  unpreten- 
tious, somewhat  careless  of  his  appearance ;  a  quiet, 
steady  influence  for  sound  learning  in  the  ancient, 
established  disciplines.  He  and  his  wife  had  never 
been  factors  in  the  ambitious  social  life  that  had 
developed  in  Argos  within  the  last  few  years. 
Their  unobtrusive  pride  was  more  intense  than 
pride  of  money.  They  ignored  people  like  Mrs. 
Tupper  and  were  ignored  in  turn.  They  had  de- 
spised Babington  as  a  snob  from  the  very  first,  and 
he  had  regarded  them  with  irritation.  Plow  had 
learned  in  the  last  year  from  bitter  experience  that 
the  old  order  was  giving  place  to  the  new,  and 
that  the  college  professor  of  the  future  must  make 
friends  of  the  Mammon  of  wealth  and  fashion. 
Clark's  reply  showed  that  he  understood  the  situa- 
tion also. 

"It  isn't  likely  that  I'll  get  another  call.  I'm 
afraid  I've  had  my  day."  He  stated  the  fact  as 
simply  and  dispassionately  as  if  it  were  a  mathe- 
matical formula.  His  expression  was  calm,  though 
his  words  were  hopeless. 

"No,  you  haven't!"  Plow  cried,  springing  to  his 


VOLUNTEERS  263 

feet.  "You'll  come  back  here  with  colors  flying, 
if  I  have  anything  to  say  about  it." 

He  saw  the  incredulity  and  concern  in  their  eyes, 
and  forgave  them  for  their  lack  of  faith  in  his  fu- 
ture. Of  course  they  would  think  his  dreams  only 
dreams,  no  matter  how  eloquently  he  might  defend 
them.  It  was  a  natural  defect  of  their  clear  men- 
tal vision  that  they  often  saw  the  difficulties  rather 
than  the  possibilities  of  life.  Plow  realized  now 
the  full  value  of  their  stand  for  principle,  deprived 
as  they  were  of  the  sweet  blandishments  of  hope. 

"It's  too  early  to  tell  yet,"  he  continued,  sinking 
back  on  his  seat  and  speaking  more  quietly.  "Poli- 
tics is  a  doubtful  game.  But  the  university  can't 
stand  Babington  forever.  I'm  as  sure  of  that  as 
that  I'm  sitting  here.  And  when  the  time  comes 
I'll  have  something  to  say  about  it." 

"I'm  sure  you  have  our  best  wishes,  and,  I  might 
add,  our  prayers  for  your  success,"  Mrs.  Clark  said, 
incapable  of  holding  out  an  encouragement  that 
she  felt  unjustified.  Plow's  eyes  gleamed  with 
sudden  humor. 

"You  don't  do  that  Irish  streak  in  me  full  jus- 
tice," he  declared.  "We're  born  politicians,  though 
some  of  us  mistake  our  calling  for  a  time  and  get 
into  the  game  rather  late.  But  how  is  it  with  you, 
Clark?  How  are  you  off  for  money?  Sinews  of 
war,  you  know.  This  is  a  common  cause,  and  if 
you'll  accept  a  loan  from  the  treasury  any  time  will 
do  to  pay  it  back.  I  haven't  had  a  family  to  sup- 
port all  these  years." 


264  THE   TORCH 

"No,  no,"  the  professor  protested,  deeply  touched. 
"We've  got  enough  money  to  get  east  on,  and  some- 
thing over.  We  can  worry  through  the  winter  all 
right  in  the  old  place." 

"You'll  need  it  for  your  campaign,"  Mrs.  Clark 
put  in,  very  near  to  tears.  Their  visitor  looked  at 
them  speculatively,  and  knew  that  persuasion  was 
useless. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off.  I  have  an  engagement  in 
the  capital,  but  I'll  see  you  again,  at  the  train,  any- 
how." 

He  grasped  a  hand  of  each  warmly,  and  then 
hurried  from  the  room,  his  heart  aching  for  them  as 
their  hearts  ached  for  him. 

"Poor  Mr.  Plow,"  Mrs.  Clark  said,  wiping  her 
eyes.  "I'm  afraid  he'll  never  be  elected  to  any- 
thing. To  think  that  he's  lost  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  too, 
though  I'm  bound  to  say  I  think  that  was  less  of  a 
misfortune  than  he  imagines.  And  he  wanted  to 
lend  us  money !"  She  could  get  no  further. 

"My  dear,"  replied  her  husband,  "he  doesn't 
think  he's  lost  her.  He'll  not  think  so  until  he 
sees  her  marriage  to  Babington  announced  in  the 
papers." 

She  laughed  at  the  truth  of  the  analysis,  and 
then  wept  again  at  its  pathos  until,  ashamed  of  such 
weakness,  she  dried  her  eyes  permanently  and  re- 
turned to  her  work.  That  night,  at  the  table,  they 
talked  with  the  children  of  the  Christmas  they 
would  spend  by  the  big  fireplace  in  the  old  house 
on  the  little  farm  near  Stonington. 

At  the  same  time  Trumbull's  friends  were  giving 


VOLUNTEERS  265 

him  a  farewell  Kneipe  in  one  of  the  large  private 
rooms  of  the  Blue  Buffalo.  More  beer  was  drunk 
from  the  stone  mugs  than  was  necessary  to  quench 
thirst.  Trumbull,  as  president  of  the  revels,  wield- 
ed a  rod  of  iron.  He  sent  Lee  to  the  piano  to  play 
for  the  singing;  he  declared  another  man  a  Fucks 
and  ordered  him  to  stand  behind  an  improvised  cage 
of  chairs  while  he  made  a  speech  on  the  flavor  of 
sour  grapes.  He  was  a  sight  worth  seeing,  as  he 
stood  with  his  little  German  cap  on  his  head  and 
rapped  the  beer-soaked  table  till  he  splintered  the 
stick  in  his  hand.  He  seemed  a  direct  importation 
from  Leipzig,  and  his  polyglot  tendency  increased 
with  every  mug  he  drained.  When  any  one  of  his 
subjects  wished  to  leave  his  seat  he  demanded  from 
him  a  Tempus  peto,  and  granted  the  request  with 
a  lordly  Habeas.  Finally  he  exacted  a  song  from 
each  one,  and  sang  three  himself  in  three  dif- 
ferent languages.  About  ten  o'clock  the  party 
formed  in  a  procession  and  marched  about  the 
room,  singing  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow." 

While  the  uproar  was  at  its  height  President 
Babington  entered  the  restaurant,  shook  the  snow 
from  his  hat  and  called  for  ale  and  oysters.  He 
had  just  come  from  a  long  visit  with  Mrs.  Tupper 
and  was  white  with  weariness  and  anxiety.  The 
number  of  resignations  was  beginning  to  shake  his 
nerves.  That  very  day  Doctor  Brown  had  joined 
the  rebels  and  sent  him  a  letter  as  a  flail  of  his  bit- 
ter indignation.  The  blow  failed  to  produce  the 
effect  intended.  Babington  was  relieved  to  know 
that  Brown's  strange  personality  would  no  longer 


266  THE   TORCH 

be  thrust  within  his  vision  to  challenge  his  con- 
science, but  the  resignation  meant  more  trouble, 
more  correspondence.  He  heard  the  sounds  of 
jollification  in  the  back  room  and  called  the  waiter. 

"What's  going  on  to-night?"  he  asked  casually. 

"Some  young  men  from  the  university  are  giv- 
ing Professor  Trumbull  a  send-off,  sir,"  the  man 
replied. 

Babington  could  hear  nothing  distinctly,  but  he 
imagined  that  if  any  references  were  being  made 
to  him  they  were  probably  not  complimentary. 
There  was  something  in  that  revel  more  defiant 
than  many  resignations,  and  he  was  stirred  to  deep 
resentment.  Presently,  as  the  ale  warmed  him,  a 
mood  of  self-pity  succeeded.  He  wished  he  could 
change  places  with  them,  could  be  as  free  and  un- 
trammeled  as  they.  By  comparison,  he  ceased  to 
think  of  himself  as  young.  The  difference  between 
him  and  them  in  position  was  more  significant  than 
the  few  years.  He  reflected  bitterly  that  they  were 
his  natural  enemies,  made  so  by  their  official  rela- 
tionship to  himself,  and  could  have  no  sympathy 
with  his  ideals  and  with  the  difficulties  of  his  office. 
He  hurried  away  before  they  should  come  out,  and 
boarded  a  car  for  Argos,  almost  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  struggle  for  the  right. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY 

Late  one  afternoon  in  January  the  quiet  streets 
of  Argos  were  startled  by  the  wailing  cry  of  news- 
boys. Only  an  event  of  unusual  importance  could 
send  the  extra  editions  to  the  suburbs  of  the  capi- 
tal. As  the  ominous  cries  came  echoing  down  the 
street  doors  were  swung  wide;  students  and  pro- 
fessors ran  out  into  the  snowy  twilight  and  bought 
a  paper,  their  hearts  stirred  by  vague  foreboding. 

Since  the  resignation  of  Stuart  and  Trumbull, 
Argos  had  become  a  theater  of  feverish  excite- 
ment. Ten  other  members  of  the  faculty  had  re- 
signed, and  their  places  were  already  filled  by  sub- 
stitutes from  the  east.  Resignations  had  followed 
each  other  with  such  rapidity  that  the  count  of 
heroes  was  lost.  Their  letters  were  published  in 
the  papers  with  laudatory  comments,  the  president's 
curt  replies  were  condemned,  and  then  they  went 
their  way.  A  hundred  of  Plow's  students  had 
migrated  to  Washington  University,  but  the  great 
majority  stood  steadily  by  the  president  and  at- 
tended the  lectures  of  the  new  professors. 

Almost  every  day  brought  its  shock  of  news, 
and  no  one  could  tell  who  would  be  the  next  man 

267 


268  THE   TORCH 

to  throw  in  his  lot  with  the  strikers.  The  presi- 
dent walked  in  and  out,  suspected  and  suspicious. 
The  tension  between  the  faculty  and  himself  had 
grown  so  great  that  they  faced  him  as  seldom  as. 
possible,  spoke  their  business  briefly  and  left.  The 
irritation  of  his  manner,  which  had  formerly  alter- 
nated with  geniality,  was  now  a  permanent  charac- 
teristic. He  looked  at  his  teachers,  any  one  of 
whom  might  become  the  next  rebel,  with  an  inso- 
lent stare  and  a  jaw  firmly  set. 

The  old  republic  of  learning  was  destroyed,  and 
whatever  charm  of  relationship  had  existed  be- 
tween the  faculty  and  students  was  gone.  The 
despot  was  in  league  with  the  plebs,  as  Stuart  had 
predicted,  and  the  senate  was  being  crushed  be- 
tween the  upper  and  nether  millstones.  The  world- 
old  hostility  of  the  taught  toward  their  teachers 
had  always  existed  to  a  certain  extent  at  Argos, 
but  now  the  attitude  was  more  pronounced.  The 
students  consciously  or  unconsciously  despised  the 
men  who  had  often  held  them  down  and  yet  were 
powerless  in  the  hands  of  a  master. 

When  Mrs.  Van  Sant  heard  the  shout  of  "Ex- 
tra !"  she  opened  her  door  and  went  down  the  walk 
to  get  the  news.  The  carriers  had  passed  on,  but 
she  saw  Lee  standing  under  the  electric  light  with 
a  paper  in  his  hands  and  called  him. 

"It's  Brown,"  he  said,  coming  up.  His  face  was 
as  white  as  the  paper  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"What  about  him?"  she  cried.  Her  nerves  had 
been  somewhat  shaken  by  the  events  of  the  last  two 
months,  and  Lee's  manner  caused  the  blood  to  rush 


THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY  269 

to  her  heart  in  a  tumult  of  strange  fear.  She  had 
scarcely  known  the  instructor  in  Latin,  but  a  re- 
membrance of  his  uncanny  personality  prepared  her 
for  something  of  peculiar  horror. 

"He's  dead.  It  is  thought  he  committed  sui- 
cide." 

They  went  into  the  house,  and  he  stood  beneath 
the  chandelier,  adjusting  his  glasses  with  a  trem- 
bling hand. 

"Read  it,"   she  urged  breathlessly.     "Read  it." 

"My  glasses  are  covered  with  mist,"  he  said. 
"I  can't  see." 

She  took  the  paper  from  his  hand  and  sat  down, 
spreading  it  open  on  her  knees.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments there  was  absolute  silence  between  them; 
then  she  looked  up,  her  face  as  pale  as  his  own. 

"How  dreadful !"  she  whispered.  "How  ghast- 
ly and  mysterious!  Did  you  read  it  all?" 

"Every  bit  of  it,  and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it 
were  true,"  he  answered. 

"If  what  were  true  ?" 

"That  he  committed  suicide.  Of  course,  his 
death  may  have  been  accidental,  a  result  of  his  own 
carelessness,  and  it  seems  that  nothing  has  been 
found  among  his  papers  to  show  that  he  planned  to 
take  his  life.  I  knew  he  signed  the  death-warrant 
to  his  professional  career  when  he  resigned.  He 
probably  thought  he  could  get  another  place,  and  I 
suspect  that  when  he  learned  the  truth  it  was  too 
much  for  him." 

Again  silence  fell  between  them.  She  was  wish- 
ing that  she  had  shown  the  instructor  some  atten- 


270  THE   TORCH 

tion,  that  she  had  tried  to  mediate  between  him 
and  Babington,  that  she  had  not  indulged  her  in- 
stinctive dislike  of  his  unattractive  personality. 

"I  know  what  you're  thinking  of,  Susanne,"  he 
said.  "I  was  thinking  the  same  thing.  We  might 
have  done  something  to  prevent  this.  But  you 
mustn't  reproach  yourself.  He  wouldn't  give  us  a 
chance.  I  have  seen  him  rude  to  you,  and  you  re- 
member last  spring  how  he  resented  my  sympathy. 
It  was  natural  enough,  too.  I  resolved  then  to 
speak  to  Judge  Gates  about  him  this  year,  but  now 
it's  too  late.  You  know  how  Brown  behaved  toward 
the  last.  I  didn't  dare  speak  to  him." 

"You're  right,  Nicholas,  of  course,"  she  an- 
swered, trying  to  rally.  "It  would  be  weak  to  tor- 
ture ourselves  with  useless  regrets.  Only,  I've 
learned  a  lesson." 

"And  I,  too,"  he  said  simply. 

"What  was  the  poor  creature  doing  in  that  little 
town?"  she  asked.  "I  never  knew  what  became  of 
him  after  he  resigned." 

"He  was  teaching  school.  You  can  imagine  the 
contrast  between  that  position  and  an  instructor- 
ship  in  the  university.  He  ran  away  from  tyranny 
only  to  find  it  in  a  worse  form,  for  there's  nothing 
to  compare  with  the  ignorance  and  prejudice  of  a 
rural  school  board.  He  found  out  that  politics 
ruled  there  even  more  than  here.  The  discovery 
must  have  been  maddening  to  him,  and  he  was  not 
a  man  to  conciliate  people  and  win  support." 

She  picked  up  the  paper  again  and  then  put  it 


THE    UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY  271 

down  on  her  knees,  striking  it  nervously  with  her 
clenched  fist. 

"The  Times  insinuates  that  Mr.  Babington  is  in- 
directly responsible!"  she  cried.  "It  says  his 
neglect  to  promote  Doctor  Brown  may  have  been 
the  cause  of  his  resignation  and  death.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  anything  more  malicious?" 

"Malicious?"  he  echoed. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  he  really  is 
responsible?"  she  demanded,  the  color  suddenly 
rushing  to  her  face. 

"Not  directly,  no;  but  I  can't  say  that  I  think 
his  treatment  of  Brown  was  eminently  fair  and 
just.  In  a  way,  I  suppose  he  is  responsible,  but, 
of  course,  if  he  could  have  foreseen  this  result  he 
would  have  tried  to  do  something  to  prevent  it." 

"You're  always  criticizing  him  behind  his  back," 
she  said  stormily.  "If  you  don't  approve  of  him, 
why  don't  you  tell  him  so  and  resign,  instead  of 
coming  to  me  with  your  complaints?" 

"That's  a  new  tack  for  you  to  take,"  he  retorted, 
deeply  hurt.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  become  his 
champion.  I  never  concealed  my  opinion  of  him 
from  the  first,  and  you  knew  what  I  thought  be- 
fore to-day.  I'm  not  aware  that  it  is  customary 
to  tell  people  what  you  think  of  them,  and  as  for  re- 
signing, I  refuse  to  play  into  his  hands  by  doing 
so." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  flung  him  a  look  of 
scorn. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  I  think  any  insinuations 


272  THE   TORCH 

against  Mr.  Babington  at  this  time  are  cruel  and 
malicious." 

"I'm  sorry  you  think  so,"  he  answered  coldly, 
taking  up  his  hat.  "There  seems  to  be  an  irrecon- 
cilable difference  of  opinion  on  the  subject  between 
us,  and  I  don't  propose  to  argue  the  matter."  He 
bowed  to  her  with  formal  courtesy  and  left  the 
room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  she  picked  up  the  news- 
paper and  thrust  it  into  the  fire,  standing  with  her 
foot  on  the  fender  and  watching  the  flames  until 
they  had  whirled  the  crisp,  charred  remnants  up  the 
chimney.  She  was  angry  with  Lee  almost  beyond 
the  power  of  forgiveness,  and  yet  greater  than  her 
anger  was  her  humiliation.  Why  had  she  taken  it 
upon  herself  to  defend  the  president  before  one 
who  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things,  sympathize 
with  her  indignant  impulse?  Lee  was  never  guilty 
of  the  vulgarity  of  showing  personal  jealousy,  but 
his  attitude  toward  the  president  had  been  critical 
from  the  first.  She  would  not  admit  the  justice 
of  his  present  judgment,  and  yet  the  very  fierce- 
ness of  her  resentment  convicted  her  of  doubt. 
She  was  too  fair  a  woman  to  blink  the  fact  that 
she  had  been  trying  to  convince  herself.  Of  course, 
Lee  would  draw  his  own  conclusions,  and  she  could 
never  explain  an  attitude  of  mind  that  was  an 
enigma  even  to  herself.  Anger,  humiliation  and 
doubt  racked  her  cruelly ;  but  above  all  a  conscious- 
ness of  that  grim  tragedy  struck  her  with  a  chill, 
and  she  shivered  like  one  in  the  grip  of  an  ague. 

As  Lee  strode  down  the  street  he  admitted  to 


THE    UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY  273 

himself  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  grateful  to 
Susanne  for  rejecting  him.  He  was  even  sorry 
for  her,  as  he  divined  her  mental  turmoil.  If  she 
loved  the  president  she  could  not  be  indifferent  to 
the  attacks  upon  him.  Looking  back  over  the  last 
few  months,  he  wondered  at  his  own  temerity  in 
discussing  him  so  freely  with  her.  Pride  had  kept 
her  apparently  unconcerned  until  to-night,  and  he 
had  not  suspected  that  she  really  loved  him.  Now 
he  saw  the  truth,  and  with  instinctive  chivalry  he 
resolved  to  make  amends.  He  would  never  dis- 
cuss Babington  with  her  again,  and  he  knew  her 
generous  nature  well  enough  to  be  sure  of  her  for- 
giveness. 

"But  to  think  that  she  could  love  him,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Poor  Susanne!" 

He  looked  up  at  the  stars,  stilled  by  a  sudden 
realization  of  the  mystery  of  life  and  death.  There 
was  not  time  enough  on  earth  for  work  and  love; 
there  ought  not  to  be  time  enough  for  hate.  How 
unnecessary  the  animosity  between  himself  and  the 
man  that  was  gone!  He  could  scarcely  grasp  the 
fact  that  he  would  never  again  see  that  familiar 
figure  in  the  streets  of  Argos,  that  figure  associated 
with  all  his  professional  career.  A  few  years  more, 
and  what  difference  would  it  make  that  one  had 
succeeded  and  the  other  failed?  They  would  both 
be  in  that  land  where  all  things  are  forgotten. 

It  seemed  peculiarly  sad  to  him  that  Brown's 
death  should  be  attended  only  by  pity  and  horror, 
that  the  man  had  won  so  little  love  on  his  earthly 
pilgrimage.  He  had  been  mysterious,  furtive,  and 


274  THE   TORCH 

repellent  in  his  life,  and  his  death  was  strangely  in 
keeping.  And  why  should  one  man  be  the  recipient 
of  love  unsought,  while  another  bristled  with  sub- 
tile antagonisms?  He  thought  of  the  man's  fierce 
struggle  for  righteousness,  of  his  uncharitable 
charities,  of  the  bitter  jealousy  that  poisoned  his 
life.  His  Christian  training  must  have  made  the 
idea  of  suicide  peculiarly  repellent,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment Lee  felt  that  the  theory  was  improbable.  The 
subject  possessed  an  uncanny  fascination  for  him, 
and  he  imagined  the  imperceptible  gradations  by 
which  that  embittered  soul  had  gone  down  into  the 
valley  of  despair. 

He  pictured  Brown  as  he  had  seen  him  the  after- 
noon of  the  reception,  almost  a  year  before,  and 
seemed  to  hear  him  say  once  more,  "In  heaven, 
perhaps,  but  not  here!"  At  the  time  the  remark 
had  seemed  a  sneer  at  the  justice  of  God,  and  now 
it  appeared  to  be  the  key  with  which  to  unlock  the 
mystery  of  his  death.  Perhaps  self-destruction 
had  been  his  peculiar  temptation,  the  one  unspeak- 
able wickedness  that  had  beckoned  him  down  the 
dark  vista  of  defeat.  If  he  had  only  learned  the 
value  of  those  relaxations  which  he  condemned,  he 
might  now  be  alive  and  happy  among  men,  loving 
and  beloved.  But  his  joy  was  in  scorn,  his  reward 
lay  in  the  blandishments  of  self-righteousness. 

There  must  have  been  reasons  for  his  deed. 
There  must  have  been  sophistries  and  arguments 
that  crowded  in  upon  his  mind,  to  be  beaten  back 
day  by  day  with  the  sword  of  faith.  Often,  at 
night,  they  must  have  returned  like  a  swarm  of  evil 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY  275 

spirits,  jeering  and  gibing  upon  him  in  the  dark- 
ness, until  the  ground  of  his  hope  slipped  away  be- 
neath him  and  sent  him  spinning  into  the  void  of 
uncertainty  and  despair.  The  thought  of  that  void, 
that  limitless  inane,  recalled  his  half-forgotten 
Lucretius  to  Lee's  mind.  It  was  strange  he  had 
not  thought  of  it  before.  Was  it  possible  that 
Brown  had  delved  below  the  grammatical  construc- 
tions which  seemed  to  form  his  mental  food  and 
had  read  the  very  heart  of  the  pagan  world?  Did 
the  Epicurean  convince  him  at  last  that  after  death 
he  would  cease  to  exist,  or  would  at  least  cease  to 
be  unhappy?  How  often,  early  in  his  teaching 
career,  he  must  have  sneered  at  Horace's  charac- 
terization of  Cato's  death  as  "noble."  Did  he 
come  to  think  it  so?  Did  the  example  of  Arria 
and  Paetus  and  Seneca  take  his  imagination  captive 
until  he  rushed  madly  from  self-torment  to  em- 
brace oblivion? 

He  felt  that  he  had  entered  on  a  study  of 
growing  insanity,  and  shrank  back  from  the  brink 
appalled.  For  a  moment  he  felt  not  entirely  guilt- 
less of  this  man's  death.  Had  he  done  anything  to 
help  him  see  the  sweetness  of  life?  Had  he  not 
accentuated  their  rivalry  by  his  scorn  ?  Everett  had 
done  what  he  could,  but  his  recommendation  in 
Brown's  behalf  had  been  mercilessly  blue-penciled 
by  the  president.  It  seemed  as  if  Babington  had 
resisted  with  peculiar  animus  the  importunities  of 
men  who  might  have  thought  themselves  entitled 
to  special  consideration.  Lee  breathed  a  sigh  of 
thankfulness  to  reflect  that  he  had  not  given  the  poor 


276  THE   TORCH 

wretch  the  final  push  into  the  gulf,  and  wondered 
whether  the  wraith  of  the  dead  man  would  arise  in 
the  president's  soul  like  a  spiritual  miasma,  shadow- 
ing his  days  with  remorse. 

He  caught  sight  of  a  girl  slipping  and  struggling 
through  the  snow  before  him,  and  recognized  Miss 
Hathaway.  The  sudden  resilience  of  his  mood 
amazed  him.  It  was  like  a  temptation  to  laugh  at 
a  funeral.  He  had  been  brooding  on  a  ruined  ca- 
reer and  an  enigmatical  death;  but  here  was  youth 
and  beauty  and  joy.  His  heart  went  out  to  her 
as  to  a  flower  growing  in  a  field  of  weeds,  uncon- 
scious alike  of  their  ugliness  and  of  her  own  rare 
quality. 

"Let  me  help  you,  Miss  Hathaway,"  he  said, 
coming  up  to  her  side.  "I  wish  you  would  take 
my  arm." 

He  yearned  for  her  sweet,  human  companion- 
ship. As  she  hesitated,  he  possessed  himself  quiet- 
ly of  her  books,  took  her  cold  little  hand  firmly  in 
his  own  and  thrust  it  deep  into  the  pocket  of  his 
greatcoat.  He  was  warmed  and  comforted  by  her 
touch;  he  was  not  surprised  that  she  made  no  re- 
sistance, that  she  scarcely  seemed  conscious  of  his 
action. 

"I  asked  you  to  let  me  help  you,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause I  needed  your  help.  I  have  seen  a  ghost." 

She  shivered  as  with  cold. 

"I  had  been  studying  with  a  friend,"  she  returned, 
"and  there  I  heard  the  dreadful  news.  Poor  Doc- 
tor Brown !  I  took  a  course  with  him  last  year,  and 
I  can't  seem  to  forget  just  how  he  used  to  look.  I 


THE   UNDISCOVERED    COUNTRY  277 

wish  I  had  been  able  to  like  him  better  then.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  anything  more  dreadful?" 

"Never,"  he  answered.  "But  we  mustn't  think 
of  it  any  more.  It  isn't  sane  to  torment  ourselves 
with  ghastly  fancies." 

"You  don't  believe  he  committed  suicide,  do 
you  ?"  she  asked,  her  voice  trembling. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  declared  stoutly.  "He  was 
the1  last  man  in  the  world  to  do  such  a  thing.  You 
mustn't  believe  the  papers.  They  always  try  to 
make  a  bad  matter  worse.  It  must  have  been  an 
accident." 

"I'm  so  glad  you  think  so,"  she  sighed,  looking 
up  at  him.  "I  begin  to  feel  better  about  it." 

He  continued  to  talk  with  her  and  to  comfort  her 
almost  as  if  she  were  a  child,  yet  all  the  time  he 
was  conscious  of  that  little  hand  growing  warmer 
and  warmer  within  his  own ;  he  was  thrilled  by  the 
momentary  pressure  of  her  strong  young  body 
against  him  as  she  slipped  in  the  snow.  The  hood 
of  her  cape  fell  back  from  her  head,  and  she  would 
not  replace  it. 

"It  smothers  me,"  she  declared.  "I  like  to  feel 
the  snow  and  wind  in  my  face." 

His  imagination  grew  warm  with  remembrances 
of  just  such  nights  in  his  youth  when  he  used  to 
take  Susanne  home  from  some  merrymaking,  and 
the  intervening  years  seemed  a  dream.  He  was 
young  once  more.  The  tragedy  that  had  filled 
his  thoughts  became  remote,  a  mere  passing  re- 
minder of  the  common  lot  of  man.  It  had  no  part 
with  his  present  experience,  with  this  sweet  girl  at 


278  THE   TORCH 

his  side  whose  growing  consciousness  of  their  sud- 
den intimacy  pervaded  him  like  an  unspoken  mes- 
sage of  love.  He  noted  her  dawning  embarrass- 
ment with  a  strange  exultation.  She  made  a  gen- 
tle effort  to  withdraw  her  hand. 

"This- is  where  I  live,"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

He  recognized  the  house  as  that  of  a  rich  towns- 
woman  who  had  come  to  Argos  to  live  that  she 
might  break  into  the  university  society.  He  had 
never  been  in  the  house,  and  he  knew  that.  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  regarded  the  woman's  aspirations  with 
amusement.  He  suspected  that  Miss  Hathaway 
was  employed  there,  perhaps  as  a  maid,  perhaps  as 
a  caretaker  of  the  children. 

"Here  are  your  books,"  he  said. 

He  still  kept  her  other  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  as 
she  took  the  books  he  drew  her  to  him  with  a  sud- 
den impulsive  yearning.  For  a  moment  he  saw  the 
flash  of  her  startled  eyes,  and  her  warm,  sweet 
breath  came  quick  against  his  face.  The  blood 
rioted  in  his  veins,  and  he  kissed  her.  She  freed 
herself  from  him  and  shrank  back  with  a  little  cry 
of  protest  that  went  to  his  heart  like  an  appeal  for 
pity. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  entreated,  standing  before  her, 
self-condemned.  "Please  don't." 

If  she  had  only  flamed  out  at  him  he  would  have 
been  relieved,  but  she  turned  without  a  word  of  re- 
proach and  went  slowly  up  the  path  to  the  house. 
He  stood  still  until  the  door  closed  behind  her  and 
then  went  back  to  his  rooms,  on  worse  terms  with 
himself  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A    NEW    CHAMPION 

When  the  president  heard  the  news  of  Brown's 
death  he  was  shocked  and  unnerved  beyond  meas- 
ure, but  he  took  the  first  train  for  the  little  town 
and  there  did  what  he  could.  He  superintended 
the  packing  of  Brown's  effects;  he  telegraphed  to 
the  instructor's  family,  and,  in  accordance  with 
their  request,  he  sent  the  body  home  for  burial. 
When  he  returned  to  Argos,  after  an  absence  of 
several  days,  he  talked  freely  with  the  reporters. 

"Doctor  Brown  was  an  old  student  of  mine.  He 
was  a  promising  scholar  and  I  expected  great  things 
of  him.  I  regretted  keenly  his  unnecessary  resig- 
nation from  the  university.  Doubtless  his  absence 
would  have  been  only  temporary  but  for  this  sad 
accident.  You  may  say  for  me  that  any  talk  of 
suicide  is  a  malicious  slander  and  does  his  memory 
great  injustice.  His  influence  among  the  students 
as  a  Christian  gentleman  and  a  sound  scholar  was 
admirable.  I  was  very  sorry  when  he  resigned, 
but,  of  course,  under  the  circumstances,  I  was  forced 
to  take  him  at  his  word.  There  was  no  personal 
quarrel  between  us;  it  was  merely  a  difference  of 
opinion.  I  hoped  at  the  time  that  he  would  one 

279 


280  THE   TORCH 

day  revise  his  judgment  and  pave  the  way  for  a 
return  to  the  university,  but  now,  poor  Brown — " 

The  reporters  saw  that  he  was  struggling  for 
composure,  and  forbore  to  question  him  further. 
Only  to  Fyffe  did  the  president  mention  the  sub- 
ject again. 

"If  he  did  commit  suicide,  which  I  don't  believe, 
we  have  a  fine  example  of  Plow's  pernicious  influ- 
ence. That  man  would  flout  all  authority,  even 
the  authority  of  religion.  I  hope  he  did  not  under- 
mine poor  Brown's  faith  at  the  same  time  that  he 
destroyed  his  respect  for  law  and  order.  If  he  did, 
however,  'woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the  offense 
cometh.'  " 

It  was  a  week  before  he  called  upon  Mrs.  Van 
Sant,  but  when  he  did  he  found  nothing  in  her  man- 
ner to  justify  his  vague  forebodings.  Her  gener- 
osity had  conquered  her  instinctive  judgment,  and, 
now  that  he  was  under  a  cloud,  she  became  to  her- 
self his  champion.  There  was  something,  too,  of 
a  natural  reaction  from  the  restraint  that  had  ex- 
isted between  them  since  the  afternoon  of  his  un- 
fortunate sneer  at  Plow.  She  showed  plainly  that 
she  did  not  hold  him  in  any  degree  accountable, 
though  the  subject  of  the  tragedy  was  not  men- 
tioned between  them,  and  he  went  away  refreshed, 
comforted  and  profoundly  grateful. 

The  event  seemed  to  quiet  men's  passions  and 
to  bring  about  a  truce,  for  there  were  no  more 
resignations.  But  still,  for  a  time,  Argos  talked 
and  thought  of  little  else.  The  president's  un- 
compromising enemies  were  amazed  at  his  clever- 


A    NEW   CHAMPION  281 

ness.  They  saw  that  he  had  won  sympathy  out  of 
the  very  jaws  of  reproach  by  his  adherence  to  prin- 
ciple and  by  his  apparent  kindness  of  heart.  Others 
were  convinced  that  they  had  done  him  a  wrong", 
and  repented  their  lack  of  charity.  A  third  party 
held  a  more  intricate  view.  They  felt  that  Babing- 
ton  had  realized  his  danger  and  had  averted  it  by  a 
deliberate  plan  and  a  bold  defiance  of  the  theory 
of  suicide;  but  they  imagined  also  that  his  emotion 
was  genuine,  that  he  was  profoundly  moved  by  the 
pathos  of  the  instructor's  untimely  death. 

Meanwhile  the  work  of  the  university  went  for- 
ward smoothly.  The  thickly  crowding  events  of 
the  great  world  pushed  the  subject  from  men's 
minds  and  from  the  columns  of  the  newspapers. 
The  impending  conventions  for  the  nomination  of  a 
governor  of  the  state  began  to  furnish  political  gos- 
sip. It  was  reported  that  Daniel  Plow,  by  virtue 
of  his  boyhood's  occupation,  had  joined  the  Black- 
smiths' Union  and  would  make  an  effort  to  capture 
the  nomination  of  the  Labor  Union  party.  This 
party  had  never  been  much  more  formidable  than 
the  Prohibitionists,  and  even  The  Times,  though 
it  catered  to  the  common  people,  treated  the  new 
aspirant  with  respect  rather  than  with  enthusiasm. 

At  Argos  Plow's  election  was  regarded  as  hope- 
less, even  by  his  admirers,  and  Babington  viewed 
his  ambition  with  amusement  and  contempt. 

For  almost  a  month  comparative  quiet  reigned 
at  Argos.  The  passions  that  had  roiled  the  Pierian 
spring  seemed  to  outsiders  to  be  subsiding  and 
leaving  the  waters  clear.  But  the  clearness  was 


282  THE   TORCH 

deceptive.  Down  at  the  bottom,  dead  leaves, 
sticks  and  stones  waited  but  the  prodding  of  some 
mischievous  hand  to  rise  up  and  poison  the  pool 
anew. 

Babington  himself  had  maintained  silence  since 
his  first  letter  in  answer  to  Plow's  statement.  The 
only  expressions  of  his  opinion  which  found  their 
way  into  the  papers  were  his  curt  and  formulaic 
acceptances  of  resignations.  Since  Brown's  death, 
and  the  consequent  truce,  his  first  anxiety  had  dis- 
appeared. His  was  not  a  brooding  nature,  and 
he  did  not  suffer  self-reproach.  He  still  felt  that  he 
had  been  justified  in  refusing  Everett's  request  for 
Brown's  advancement,  on  the  ground  that  there  was 
no  money.  He  could  not  admit  to  himself  his 
stronger  motive,  a  desire  to  show  his  power  to  the 
man  who  might  have  had  his  office.  Even  that 
sad  event  had  redounded  to  his  credit,  as  if  to 
prove  the  justice  of  his  course.  Much  of  his  nerv- 
ous irritability  disappeared.  He  was  genial  once 
more,  as  in  the  early  days  of  his  incumbency,  but 
there  was  a  lurking  sardonic  humor  behind  his 
geniality  that  boded  ill  for  his  enemies.  He  walked 
with  a  surer  sense  of  power  and  security.  His 
smile  easily  merged  into  a  sneer,  and  the  stare  of 
his  bulgent  eyes  was  more  suggestive  than  ever  be- 
fore of  thinly  veiled  contempt.  It  was  generally 
noticed  that  he  had  taken  on  weight,  and  his  ene- 
mies commented  on  the  fullness  of  his  throat  as 
an  indication  of  high  living. 

The  president  knew  to  whom  he  could  confide 
his  opinion  of  Daniel  Plow,  the  blacksmith  and 


A    NEW   CHAMPION  283 

haranguer  of  "wage  slaves."  Fyffe  and  Watkins 
and  some  of  the  new  professors  greeted  his  sallies 
at  Plow's  expense  with  sympathetic  grins.  Inde- 
pendent instructors,  who  were  too  young  to  serve 
on  committees  and  had  no  vote  in  the  faculty,  found 
it  easy  to  show  their  dislike  of  the  president  by 
avoiding  him.  His  receptions  were  now  attended 
only  by  the  students  and  by  his  small  band  of  hench- 
men. The  heads  of  the  departments  were  obliged 
to  see  him  daily  on  matters  of  business,  and  the 
feud  continued.  The  hatred  of  many  of  these 
men  toward  Babington  became  almost  a  mono- 
mania, all  the  more  intense  and  soul-racking  be- 
cause of  the  need  of  concealment.  Some  of  them 
brooded  upon  it  with  such  bitterness  that  all  the 
joy  of  life  and  incentive  to  labor  seemed  to  leave 
them.  Even  Professor  Everett  had  changed.  He 
appeared  grayer  and  more  stern,  as  he  began  to 
realize  the  hopelessness  of  his  long  fight  to  keep  up 
the  standard  of  the  university. 

The  president  was  planning  another  coup  with 
which  to  finish  his  second  year.  Mrs.  Tupper  had 
promised  him  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  cash 
for  a  recitation  hall  in  memory  of  her  husband. 
The  architectural  plans  were  now  under  way,  but 
no  one  knew  the  secret  except  the  benefactress,  the 
architect,  the  president  and  Mrs.  Van  Sant. 

The  struggle  for  students  between  Washington 
University  and  the  institution  at  Argos  had  become 
acute.  Each  was  bidding  for  patronage  by  accept- 
ing admission  certificates  more  freely  from  the 
schools  of  the  state.  Up  to  this  time  the  State 


284  THE   TORCH 

University  had  required  Greek  and  Latin  of  candi- 
dates for  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  but  Wash- 
ington accepted  substitutes  for  the  ancient  lan- 
guages, German,  French,  botany,  anything,  and  its 
numbers  grew  apace.  Babington  felt  that  he  must 
offer  like  concessions.  Those  one  hundred  stu- 
dents he  had  lost  must  be  more  than  offset  by  the 
size  of  the  next  freshman  class.  The  doors  must 
be  thrown  open  to  any  one  who  would  come.  The 
way  to  get  students  was  to  make  the  entrance  easy. 
He  must  prove  his  success  not  only  by  getting  do- 
nations, but  also  by  reporting  each  year  "the 
largest  incoming  class  in  the  history  of  the  institu- 
tion." 

It  was  more  than  four  months  since  Professor 
Everett  had  said  at  the  first  college  meeting  in  the 
gymnasium  that  a  big  university  was  one  thing 
and  a  great  university  quite  another.  At  the 
time  the  utterance  had  seemed  to  Babington  a 
mere  platitude,  but  now  he  began  to  realize  that 
the  professor  meant  what  he  said.  For  several 
years  Everett  and  Lee  had  been  members  of  the 
committee  on  credentials,  and  had  stood  firmly 
>against  the  tendency  of  the  times  to  remove  the 
classical  requirements  from  the  catalogue.  Bab- 
ington wished  to  see  the  classics  go,  in  accordance 
with  his  policy  of  numbers  at  any  cost.  At  pres- 
ent Latin  and  Greek  were  required  only  for  the  de- 
gree of  Bachelor  of  Arts;  other  courses  were 
crowned  by  other  degrees,  as  Bachelor  of  Science, 
Bachelor  of  Philosophy,  Bachelor  of  Letters.  The 
president  wished  to  remove  the  required  classics  and 


A   NEW   CHAMPION  285 

to  give  the  first  degree  for  all  courses;  in  a  word, 
to  make  it  a  mantle  of  charity  covering  a  multitude 
of  sins  of  omission. 

Conservatives  like  Everett  and  Lee  wished  to  re- 
tain the  old  significance  of  the  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts;  in  this  last  ditch  they  took  their  stand. 
The  very  sight  of  Everett's  wise,  strong,  owl-like 
face  began  to  fill  the  president  with  profound  irrita- 
tion. He  grew  to  hate  Lee's  salient  nose,  his  as- 
sured poise,  his  gently  sarcastic  smile,  the  very  twirl 
of  his  glasses.  These  were  the  men  that  would  balk 
him  in  his  cherished  plan  and  allow  Washington 
University  to  gain  the  lead.  The  question  of  en- 
trance requirements  came  up  again  and  again  in  the 
faculty  meetings,  but  Babington  could  not  win  a 
majority  to  his  side.  He  had  won  the  scientific 
men,  for  they  hated  the  classics  more  than  they 
hated  him  and  wished  to  banish  them  to  increase  the 
prestige  and  influence  of  their  own  departments. 
On  the  other  side  were  the  professors  of  Greek, 
English,  Latin  and  most  of  the  teachers  of  history, 
modern  languages  and  kindred  subjects,  many  of 
them  moved  by  enmity  against  the  president  rather 
than  by  strong  conviction. 

Babington' s  interest  in  the  subject  was  more  per- 
sonal than  educational.  He  was  determined  to  be 
president  of  the  biggest  university  between  the  Al- 
leghanies  and  the  Rockies,  and  he  knew  the  way  to 
accomplish  his  end.  He  had  studied  the  sudden  ex- 
pansion of  eastern  universities,  and  had  grasped  the 
secret  of  success.  It  was  his  cleverness  in  falling 
in  with  the  tendency  of  the  times  that  had  won  him 


286  THE   TORCH 

his  reputation  as  a  progressive  educator,  and  his  call 
to  Argos.  He  had  borrowed  the  hammer  of  the 
great  iconoclasts  with  such  assurance  that  he  made 
it  seem  his  own  peculiar  weapon.  Had  it  been  feas- 
ible he  would  have  discharged  all  the  men  that  dared 
to  thwart  his  ambition  with  their  prating  of  scholar- 
ship and  culture  and  high  ideals.  He  was  looking 
a  long  way  into  the  future.  After  he  succeeded  in 
getting  the  classics  out  of  the  entrance  requirements 
he  intended  to  shorten  the  college  curriculum  to 
three  years,  that  he  might  draw  men  to  the  college 
who  would  otherwise  go  straight  from  the  schools 
to  the  study  of  medicine  and  law. 

The  deadlock  between  the  president  and  Pro- 
fessors Everett  and  Lee  was  well  known  to  the  man- 
agers of  The  Times,  and  on  this  situation  they 
based  their  hope  of  a  new  sensation.  Both  men 
were  giving  lectures  in  the  university  extension 
course  in  the  capital,  and  a  reporter  was  always 
present,  watching  for  some  casual  question  that 
might  call  forth  an  opinion  reflecting  on  the  presi- 
dent. Everett  was  too  wise  a  man  to  be  caught,  but 
Lee  was  less  anxious  to  maintain  a  neutral  front. 

One  Friday  evening  he  was  delivering  a  lecture 
on  Duns  Scotus  and  the  medieval  universities.  It 
was  a  natural  step  to  American  institutions  of 
learning,  and  after  the  lecture  he  found  himself  in- 
volved in  a  discussion  regarding  the  educational 
tendencies  of  the  times.  He  spoke  frankly  of  the 
danger  of  large  endowments  and  magnificent  build- 
ings as  tending  to  foster  a  spirit  of  materialism. 

"Just  as  men  often  build  great  houses  to  die  in 


A    NEW    CHAMPION  287 

when  they  have  grown  rich,"  he  said,  "so  I  some- 
times think  universities  erect  academic  palaces 
which  become  the  mausoleums  of  their  earlier  and 
sturdier  ideals." 

His  views  in  regard  to  mere  numbers,  as  opposed 
to  a  high  standard,  followed. 

"A  little  learning  is  sometimes  a  dangerous 
thing,  as  the  poet  says,"  he  remarked.  "We  must 
have  our  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water. 
It  is  better  to  train  thoroughly  a  few  choice  spirits 
to  rule  the  masses  intelligently  than  to  dose  the 
mob  with  large  spoonfuls  of  peptonized  mental 
pabulum." 

Finally  the  suppression  of  the  free  discussion  of 
socialistic  problems  was  mentioned. 

"People  say  that  this  suppression  is  due  to  the 
influence  of  money  and  monopoly,"  the  reporter  re- 
marked, "but  what  do  you  think?" 

"It  would  be  idle  to  deny  it,  and  personally  I 
think  it  is  much  to  be  regretted.  Such  problems 
ought  to  be  referred  to  the  university  as  to  a  higher 
tribunal.  It  is  there  that  they  should  be  weighed, 
and  approved  or  found  wanting.  The  university 
should  be  a  seminary  of  statesmen;  only  thus  can 
she  repay  the  state  for  her  support." 

"Then  you  think  that  Professor  Plow  was  in  the 
right?" 

It  was  a  leading  question,  and  the  lecturer  chose 
to  give  it  his  own  interpretation. 

"I  can't  say  that  Professor  Plow  succeeded  in 
making  me  a  convert,"  he  replied. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  ask  whether  he  was  right  in 


288  THE   TORCH 

his  political  views,  but  in  demanding  the  privilege 
of  free  speech  within  the  university." 

Lee  did  not  know  his  questioner,  but  he  sus- 
pected his  purpose.  Formality  had  ended  with  the 
lecture,  and  the  few  that  remained  were  gathered 
about  him  like  a  band  of  friends.  Only  when 
Plow's  name  was  mentioned  did  he  realize  that  un- 
wittingly he  had  been  talking  for  publication.  Now 
he  picked  up  his  papers  to  indicate  that  the  conver- 
sation was  at  an  end,  and  looked  at  the  young  man 
as  if  he  were  an  impertinent  yokel  who  could  not 
understand  the  nature  of  his  offense. 

"I  think  I  have  already  answered  that  question 
in  effect,"  he  said.  "Good  night." 

The  next  morning  when  he  picked  up  the  paper 
the  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  was  the  following 
announcement : 

PROFESSOR  LEE  JOINS  THE  ACADEMIC  STRIKE. 

CRITICIZES  THE  PRESIDENT  AT  A  LECTURE  IN  THE 

CAPITAL. 

"This  is  interesting,"  he  murmured.  "When  a 
man  is  looking  for  trouble  he  usually  manages  to 
find  it.  That  is  what  I  get  for  boasting  that  I 
would  stay  and  see  the  thing  through."  He  ad- 
justed his  glasses  and  settled  himself  for  a  perusal 
of  the  article.  "There  ought  to  be  a  commentary," 
he  reflected,  turning  to  the  editorial  page. 

His  expectation  was  justified.  With  a  fanfare 
of  editorial  trumpets  he  heard  himself  announced 


A    NEW   CHAMPION  289 

as  a  new  champion  of  liberty  entering  the  lists. 
Professor  Lee  had  openly  said  that  the  discussion 
of  socialistic  problems  ought  to  be  allowed  in  the 
university.  He  admitted  that  the  suppression  of 
such  discussions  was  due  to  the  influence  of  money 
and  monopoly.  He  had  declared,  in  effect,  that 
Professor  Plow  was  right  and  that  President  Bab- 
ington  was  wrong  in  regard  to  the  main  point  at 
issue  between  them ;  for  it  was  quite  unnecessary 
to  remind  the  readers  of  The  Times  that  the  charge 
of  offensive  political  partizanship  against  Plow  was 
merely  a  blind  to  conceal  the  real  cause  of  his  dis- 
missal, namely,  his  socialistic  views,  and  especially 
his  advocacy  of  the  public  ownership  of  public  utili- 
ties. Had  Plow  upheld  Republican  doctrines,  he 
would  still  be  at  his  post  in  the  university.  It  had 
been  known  for  some  time  that  the  relations  be- 
tween the  professor  of  English  and  the  president 
were  much  strained,  and  this  open  breach  could 
scarcely  come  as  a  surprise  to  those  on  the  inside. 
The  professor  was  one  of  the  most  promising  and 
brilliant  of  the  younger  men  in  the  faculty.  He 
was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  capital,  he  was  a 
graduate  of  the  university  at  Argos,  and  a  man  of 
influence.  The  matter  could  not  rest  where  it  was. 
Either  the  professor  must  retract,  or  the  president 
would  be  bound  by  the  precedent  he  had  established 
to  demand  his  resignation.  Of  one  thing  the  ed- 
itor was  sure :  Professor  Lee  was  a  man  that 
would  stand  by  his  guns. 

When  Lee  went  down  to  breakfast  his   fellow 


290  THE   TORCH 

boarders,  unmarried  members  of  the  faculty,  greet- 
ed him  with  ironical  congratulations  as  the  latest 
champion  of  the  lost  cause. 

"Lost  ?"  he  echoed,  looking  at  them  with  a  chal- 
lenging smile,  his  head  thrown  back. 

"What  will  you  do  about  it?"  they  asked. 

"Do?     Nothing.     What  should  I  do?" 

They  suspected  that  his  plan  of  action  was 
mapped  out  and  plied  him  with  questions,  but  he 
turned  their  curiosity  aside  with  light  jests  and 
sauntered  away,  leaving  them  mystified  and  intent. 

About  two  hours  later  he  entered  the  president's 
office  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Babington  glanced  up  at  his  visitor,  an  ugly  light 
in  his  eyes,  and  kept  his  seat.  His  habitual  lack  of 
courtesy  toward  his  professors  deprived  his  present 
manner  of  any  unusual  significance,  but  his  one 
word  of  interrogation  was  like  a  snarl. 

"Well?" 

"The  matter  is  private,  Mr.  Babington,"  Lee  an- 
swered, with  a  glance  at  Watkins.  The  secretary 
looked  at  the  president  for  a  hint,  as  a  dog  might 
look  at  his  master,  but  Babington  sat  still,  the  tide  of 
anger  flooding  his  face  until  the  very  tips  of  his  ears 
were  red.  Lee  turned  sternly  to  the  private  secre- 
tary. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  he  said  quietly,  "you  will  oblige 
me  very  much  by  leaving  us  alone  for  a  few  min- 
utes." And  Watkins  went. 

"Really,  I'm  not  accustomed  to  such  high-handed 
procedures  in  my  office — "  Babington  began. 

The  other  beat  a  tattoo  on  his  left  hand  with  the 


A   NEW   CHAMPION  291 

letter  which  he  held  in  his  right,  but  did  not  raise 
his  voice,  and  his  smile  was  almost  sweet. 

"Mr.  President,  may  I  request  an  explanation  of 
this  letter  of  dismissal  which  I  have  just  found  on 
my  desk  ?" 

The  president's  face  grew  purple  with  choler,  and 
he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  believe  the  letter  explains  itself,  sir.  I  have 
nothing  to  add." 

"Mr.  President,"  Lee  resumed,  "this  is  a  very 
serious  matter  for  you  as  well  as  for  me,  and  I  must 
insist  that  you  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  It  is 
unfortunate  that  an  expression  of  my  opinions  has 
found  its  way  into  the  public  press.  I  regret  that  I 
can  not  retract  them,  but  I  merely  wish  to  say  that 
you  are  mistaken  in  your  impression  that  I  have 
'openly  criticized  the  management  of  the  university' 
and  'undermined  its  influence.'  I  supposed  myself 
in  the  company  of  friends,  but  it  seems  that  a  re- 
porter was  present.  My  error,  or  oversight,  or  what 
you  will,  is  not  sufficient  ground  for  your  action." 

The  president's  round  eyes  burned  with  baffled 
hatred.  He  had  hoped  to  remove  this  obstacle  to 
his  plans  from  his  path.  If  Lee  were  gone  Everett 
would  lose  his  strongest  ally  and  he  could  easily 
get  a  majority  of  the  faculty  to  favor  a  revision  of 
the  entrance  requirements;  only  those  two  men 
loomed  between  him  and  the  success  that  was  almost 
within  his  grasp.  His  eyes  shot  sudden  suspicion, 
and  his  smile  was  a  sneer  of  incredulity. 

"These  explanations  after  the  event  are  scarcely 
convincing,  Mr.  Lee.  But,  at  all  events,  such  a 


292  THE   TORCH 

lack  of  loyalty  to  the  president  of  the  university 
can  not  be  overlooked.  This  can  not  be  the  first 
time  that  you  have  expressed  your  opinions.  I  must 
have  loyal  men  here,  not  obstructionists  and  detract- 
ors. I  must  consider  the  welfare  of  the  institution 
and  of  the  people  of  the  state." 

"Mr.  Babington,"  the  professor  said  quietly,  his 
nostrils  quivering,  "do  I  understand  that  you  doubt 
my  word,  that  you  give  me  the  lie?" 

The  president  saw  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and 
raised  his  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow  or  to  pro- 
pitiate his  enemy.  But  even  in  his  momentary  fear 
his  fury  was  augmented.  Plow  had  endured  his  in- 
sults in  silence,  and  the  other  men  had  not  faced  him 
personally.  They  had  merely  written  their  resigna- 
tions and  disappeared.  He  had  come  to  think  of 
opposition  to'  himself  as  treason.  Only  an  unreason- 
able fear  of  a  violent  outbreak  caused  him  to  tem- 
porize. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Lee,"  he  protested 
quickly.  "Listen  to  me  a  moment,  if  you  please.  I 
merely  meant  to  say  that  the  public  at  large  would 
not  be  inclined  to  credit  your  explanation.  You 
took  it  as  an  expression  of  personal  opinion,  thereby 
doing  me  an  additional  injustice.  But  I  waive  that 
point."  He  felt  sure  of  his  position  once  more.  No 
one  would  believe  that  Lee's  explanation  was  true; 
they  would  suppose  it  the  result  of  an  attack  of 
cowardice.  Instinctively  he  took  out  his  watch,  a 
hint  of  dismissal  that  had  done  more  than  any 
other  one  thing  to  win  him  the  hatred  of  his  faculty. 


A   NEW   CHAMPION  293 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me  now,"  he  continued,  with 
a  return  to  his  pompous  manner.  "I'm  very  busy." 

"Mr.  Babington,"  Lee  answered  steadily,  "I  wish 
to  tell  you  that  I  will  not  accept  dismissal  at  your 
hands.  I  will  continue  my  work  as  usual." 

The  president  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  scruti- 
nized his  enemy  keenly.  For  the  first  time  he  be- 
gan to  get  a  correct  estimate  of  the  man  he  had  to 
deal  with.  Anger,  intimidation,  sneers,  were  of  no 
avail,  and  his  tone  became  judicial. 

"You  can't  do  that,  Mr.  Lee.  You  might  as 
well  accept  the  inevitable." 

"It  is  very  far  from  inevitable,"  the  professor  re- 
turned, "and  for  that  very  reason  I  said  this  matter 
is  as  serious  for  you  as  for  me.  I  have  a  life  ap- 
pointment and  can  not  be  removed  unless  incompe- 
tency  or  immorality  is  proved  against  me.  It  is  so 
stated  of  full  professors  in  the  statutes  of  the  univer- 
sity. You  have  no  cause  for  your  action  which  will 
stand  the  test  of  a  court  of  law." 

The  president  started  as  if  he  had  received  a 
slight  electric  shock.  Behind  his  insolent  stare  he 
was  thinking  fast.  A  court  of  law;  why  not? 
Surely,  disloyalty  could  be  proved,  and  disloyalty 
rendered  a  man  incompetent  to  do  his  work  effect- 
ively. He  knew  where  he  could  get  money  to  bribe 
the  jury.  Mrs.  Tupper  had  become  as  wax  in  his 
hands,  and  she  hated  Lee.  If  he  won  his  case,  as 
he  must,  the  rest  of  his  career  would  be  one  broad- 
ening path  of  success.  The  entrance  requirements 
would  be  what  he  desired,  and  the  attendance  of  the 


294  THE   TORCH 

university  would  double  in  a  few  years.  Other  mal- 
contents would  learn  to  keep  their  opinions  to  them- 
selves and  to  favor  his  policies.  One  more  victori- 
ous fight  and  his  power  would  be  absolute.  He  had 
formed  the  habit  of  winning,  and  he  would  win 
again.  He  had  remembered  that  Lee  was  a  favorite 
of  Judge  Gates,  but  that  fact  had  not  deterred  him 
from  writing  the  letter  of  dismissal.  The  triumphs 
of  the  past  year  had  increased  his  confidence  in  him- 
self and  in  the  strength  of  his  position,  and  tyranny 
had  become  a  kind  of  passion  in  his  soul.  The  old 
regent  had  been  absent  a  long  time,  and  his  return 
was  doubtful.  There  was  only  one  other  considera- 
tion that  gave  him  pause,  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  friend- 
ship for  this  man.  But  she  had  not  championed 
Plow's  cause,  and  he  felt  that  she  would  not  distress 
herself  greatly  about  Lee.  If  this  impertinent  fel- 
low had  ever  presumed  to  love  her  it  would  give 
him  an  added  pleasure  to  cast  him  out.  As  he  took 
a  mental  survey  of  his  past  triumphs  and  present 
position  he  broke  into  a  smile. 

"A  court  of  law?"  he  queried.  "You  might  try 
it." 

Lee  stood  looking  at  him  a  moment  in  inexpress- 
ible scorn. 

"I  will,"  he  retorted,  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

BROUGHT   TO   BAY 

By  winding  paths  impossible  to  trace,  the  news  of 
Lee's  dismissal  reached  the  office  of  The  Times  be- 
fore many  days  had  passed.  The  paper  then  pub- 
lished the  report  of  an  interview  in  which  the  pro- 
fessor admitted  that  he  had  been  asked  to  resign, 
and  stated  that  he  had  not  done  so.  The  president 
declared  that,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  Professor 
Lee  was  no  longer  connected  with  the  university. 
Yet  the  professor  was  giving  his  courses  as  usual. 
Evidently  the  policy  of  intimidation  had  begun  to 
fail,  and  Dr.  Babington  had  met  his  match. 

The  president  ignored  Lee  when  they  chanced  to 
meet,  and  the  professor  was  equally  blind.  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  was  away  on  a  visit,  but  even  had  she 
been  in  Argos  Lee  would  not  have  ventured  to  call. 
Possessed  as  he  was  of  the  conviction  that  she  loved 
the  president,  the  situation  was  too  delicate  to  ad- 
mit of  such  a  risk.  Of  course  she  kept  track  of 
events  in  Argos,  he  reflected,  and  he  wondered 
whether  she  thought  that  her  taunt  was  the  cause  of 
his  present  stand.  He  was  hurt  to  think  that  she 
might  suppose  an  infusion  of  personal  pique  neces- 
sary to  the  strengthening  of  his  moral  fiber. 

295 


296  THE   TORCH 

The  days  that  followed  were  full  of  trial,  but  to 
all  appearances  he  remained  as  self-assured  and  in- 
different as  ever.  As  soon  as  his  quarrel  with  the 
president  became  known  the  students  thronged  his 
courses,  expecting  some  vindication  of  his  position 
or  an  address  of  farewell.  But  nothing  of  the  kind 
occurred.  When  they  began  to  realize  that  he  in- 
tended to  continue  his  work  as  usual  their  wonder 
was  changed  to  admiration.  At  the  close  of  one  of 
his  lectures  he  was  startled  by  a  spontaneous  burst 
of  applause. 

He  stood  with  his  hands  on  the  desk  before  him, 
looking  down  at  the  friendly,  attentive  faces  with 
such  an  expression  of  astonishment  that  a  ripple  of 
laughter  ran  over  the  room.  The  moment  of  temp- 
tation had  come.  His  heart  was  warmed  by  this 
unexpected  sympathy.  He  saw  June  Hathaway 
sitting  in  her  favorite  seat  by  the  window,  her  beau- 
tiful eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  that  enigmatical  gaze 
which  he  had  so  often  encountered  from  her  since 
the  eventful  night  when  he  kissed  her  in  the  snow- 
storm. Even  then  he  was  conscious  of  the  fatal 
possibilities  of  that  act.  If  she  chose  to  tell  of  it  his 
whole  position  would  be  invalidated.  He  had  in- 
formed the  president  that  a  professor  could  not  be 
discharged  except  for  immorality  or  incompetence; 
he  had  certainly  exposed  himself  and  her  to  gossip, 
perhaps  to  scandal.  He  knew  that  she  was  hurt  by 
his  act,  that  she  resented  it  bitterly,  and  yet  he  knew 
that  he  could  trust  her.  His  gratitude  toward  her 
was  mingled  with  pain  and  vain  longing.  He  had 
discovered  her  fineness  only  by  proving  himself  un- 


BROUGHT   TO   BAY  297 

worthy  of  her.  As  his  eyes  met  hers  for  one  swift 
moment  he  was  struck  by  her  expression  of  concern 
for  him,  and  his  course  grew  clear  before  him. 

"Young  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"it  is  not  often  that  a  teacher  is  rewarded  by  such 
an  emphatic  demonstration  of  approval  as  you  have 
just  given  me.  I  am  gratified  that  you  have  enjoyed 
this  subject  and  thank  you  sincerely  for  your  ap- 
preciation." 

The  turn  was  so  unexpected,  and  his  smile  so  in- 
fectious, that  the  class  broke  up  with  renewed  laugh- 
ter and  applause.  He  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  June 
that  he  had  not  yielded  to  his  first  impulse  to  crit- 
icize the  management  of  the  university  before  the 
students  and  thus  win  a  momentary  cheap  glory  by 
sensational  methods.  He  realized  also  that  such  a 
course  would  have  left  him  no  ground  of  resist- 
ance to  the  president's  demand  for  his  resignation. 
By  a  few  rash  words  he  might  have  expelled  himself 
from  the  university.  His  eyes  sought  hers  once 
more,  but  she  had  already  risen  to  her  feet  and  was 
passing  out  with  the  others.  He  followed  her  deli- 
cate profile  until  it  was  lost  to  view  and  then  sat 
down  and  stared  at  the  empty  benches,  suddenly 
weary.  The  victory  she  had  helped  him  win  seemed 
barren,  deprived  as  he  was  of  her  congratulation. 
If  she  had  only  given  him  one  fleeting  smile  he  felt 
that  he  would  have  been  satisfied. 

Those  who  watched  Lee  closely  during  that  time 
felt  that  he  had  grown  suddenly  older.  His  smile 
was  no  less  quick,  his  answer  no  less  ready,  than 
before,  but  the  glance  of  his  gray  eyes  was  shot  with 


298  THE   TORCH 

a  glint  like  that  of  tempered  steel.  He  felt  subtly 
alienated  from  his  kind.  Trumbull  was  gone,  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  was  inaccessible,  and  only  the  Everetts 
remained  to  whom  he  could  open  his  heart. 

At  the  faculty  meeting  Lee's  name  was  omitted 
by  the  secretary  when  he  called  the  roll.  He  knew 
that  Babington  would  ignore  him  if  he  addressed 
the  chair,  and  made  no  effort  to  speak.  The  presi- 
dent brought  forward  his  favorite  motion  in  regard 
to  the  entrance  requirements,  and  Everett  spoke 
against  it  as  usual.  With  him  alone,  it  seemed,  the 
tragedy  of  Brown's  strange  death  had  lingered. 
As  he  stood  before  his  colleagues  they  were  con- 
scious of  that  shadow  on  his  face,  the  shadow  of  an 
abiding  horror  and  doubt  which  even  his  whole- 
some nature  could  not  entirely  dispel.  He  seemed 
to  have  grown  older  and  more  gray.  He  could  not 
quite  persuade  himself  that  he  had  done  all  that  lay 
in  his  power  for  the  man  that  was  now  beyond  the 
need  of  his  help ;  and  this  sub-consciousness  gave  his 
words  a  gravity  and  sternness  which  stirred  the 
president  to  vague  uneasiness  and  resentful  protest. 
When  he  had  finished  no  one  else  took  the  floor. 
Babington's  pulses  beat  fast,  and  he  hoped  that  the 
victory  was  won.  There  was  a  note  of  excitement 
and  tension  in  the  cries  of  "Question,"  which  showed 
an  unusual  eagerness  to  put  the  matter  to  the  test; 
but  when  the  vote  was  taken  the  president's  defeat 
was  emphatic.  Even  the  scientific  men  went  over  to 
the  classical  side  for  the  time  to  show  their  sympathy 
with  Lee.  It  was  a  curious  battle,  more  intense  than 
many  a  one  attended  with  greater  noise.  The  result 


BROUGHT   TO   BAY  299 

was  so  unexpected  to  the  president  that  its  effect 
on  him  was  almost  ludicrous.  He  seemed  to  shrink 
visibly,  to  become  nerveless  and  ineffective  before 
that  expression  of  condemnation. 

Not  until  the  first  of  March  did  Babington  play 
his  trump  card.  It  was  pay-day  in  the  university, 
and  during  the  morning  the  members  of  the  faculty 
went  to  the  treasurer's  office  "to  see  the  ghost  walk." 

"I'm  sorry,  Professor,"  the  clerk  said,  as  Lee 
signed  the  receipt  for  his  check,  "but  next  month 
there  will  be  nothing  for  you.  Those  are  my  or- 
ders." 

"Don't  let  that  disturb  you,"  was  the  cool  an- 
swer. "Thirty  days  is  a  long  time  ahead  to  bor- 
row trouble."  He  had  read  in  the  morning  paper 
the  news  of  Judge  Gates'  unexpected  return,  and 
he  took  the  car  for  the  capital  at  once. 

"You've  got  yourself  in  a  fine  scrape  while 
I've  been  gone,  haven't  you?"  the  old  man  de- 
manded, as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

"And  you've  returned  just  in  time  to  cut  the 
Gordian  knot,"  Lee  returned  calmly. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  the  judge  demanded,  a  gleam 
of  amused  approval  in  his  vitreous  eyes. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
having  allowed  the  professor  to  do  most  of  the 
talking. 

"You're  a  chip  of  the  old  block,  Nicholas," 
he  said  with  a  dry  chuckle,  "a  chip  of  the  old  block. 
I  wish  your  father  were  alive  to  enjoy  this.  I'll  see 
what  can  be  done,  but  I  sha'n't  make  any  promises." 

Two  days  later  there  was  a  full  attendance  of  the 


300  THE   TORCH 

meeting  of  the  board  of  regents.  Judge  Gates  sat 
in  his  old  place  at  the  foot  of  the  table  and  talked 
of  his  travels  while  they  waited  for  the  president. 
The  old  regent  seemed  to  have  grown  younger. 
His  shrewd  eyes  sparkled,  but  there  was  more  mis- 
chief than  vitality  in  their  cold  gray  light. 

Presently  Babington  entered,  somewhat  winded 
by  his  climb  up  the  stairs,  and  threw  his  bundle  of 
reports  on  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "I  must  beg  you  to  ex- 
cuse me  for  keeping  you  waiting.  Ah,  Judge,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  back  again.  It  seems  like  old  times 
to  have  you  at  the  council  board  once  more." 

He  spoke  in  his  most  florid  and  cordial  manner, 
but  his  eyes  were  furtive  and  alert  as  he  advanced 
to  shake  hands  with  the  regent.  The  judge's  re- 
sponse to  his  greeting  was  scarcely  heartening.  His 
smile  was  somewhat  sardonic,  and  he  answered 
Babington's  questions  in  regard  to  his  travels  with 
scant  courtesy. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  charged  with 
expectation  when  the  business  of  the  meeting  began. 
The  president  was  visibly  nervous,  in  spite  of  his 
efforts  to  appear  hearty  and  unconcerned,  for  all  his 
enemies,  long  absent,  had  returned.  Something  of 
unusual  interest  must  have  brought  them  there,  and 
he  suspected  what  it  was.  From  time  to  time  he 
caught  a  vindictive  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man 
at  the  foot  of  the  table. 

The  ordinary  routine  business  was  despatched 
without  friction,  and  Babington  felt  a  great  relief. 


BROUGHT   TO   BAY  301 

After  all,  the  full  attendance  was  merely  a  compli- 
ment to  Judge  Gates  and  would  fall  off  as  before. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  remarked,  smiling  and  be- 
ginning to  gather  up  his  papers,  "I  believe  that  ends 
the  business  of  the  day.  A  motion  to  adjourn  is 
now  in  order."  He  arose  from  his  seat  and  pushed 
back  his  chair. 

No  one  made  the  motion,  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  foot  of  the  table. 

"Not  yet,"  the  judge  announced.  "There's  an- 
other thing  I'd  like  to  bring  up,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
President."  His  voice  always  had  a  grating  quality 
that  rasped  sensitive  nerves,  and  never  had  Babing- 
ton's  responded  to  the  stimulus  so  quickly  as  now. 
He  resumed  his  seat,  his  cheeks  a  trifle  pale,  his 
heart  beating  heavily. 

"Certainly,  Judge,"  he  responded.  There  was 
the  usual  respectful  emphasis  on  the  regent's  title, 
and  no  hint  in  his  full,  round  tone  of  the  anxiety 
that  shook  him  suddenly  like  a  fever. 

"It's  the  matter  of  Professor  Lee,"  the  judge  con- 
tinued. 

The  president  was  able  to  smile  blandly. 

"Really,  Judge,"  he  answered  courteously,  "the 
dismissal  or  engagement  of  professors  doesn't  or- 
dinarily come  before  the  board.  Of  course,  you 
may  have  forgotten  that  during  your  absence;  but 
it  was  agreed,  I  believe,  that  I  was  to  have  the  sole 
power  and  responsibility  in  such  matters,  to  take  the 
burden  from  the  regents  and  to  relieve  them  from 
the  importunities  of  professors." 


302  THE   TORCH 

The  judge  waved  his  hand  contemptuously,  and 
there  was  a  sparkle  in  his  eyes  that  meant  mischief. 

"I  know  all  that,  Mr.  Babington.  I'm  not  so  old 
that  I'm  beginning  to  lose  my  memory.  I  know  we 
agreed  that  you  were  to  be  It,  and  you  have  been  It 
with  a  vengeance.  You've  run  the  institution  now 
to  suit  yourself  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  I  don't 
deny  that  you've  shown  some  good  results.  I'm  not 
disposed  to  say  anything  about  Plow.  I'd  rather  see 
him  outside  the  university  than  in  it,  for  he's  as  full 
of  chimeras  as  he  can  stick  in  his  skin.  Of  course, 
you  had  to  get  rid  of  the  other  men,  too,  or  lose 
your  grip  on  the  machine.  But  Lee  is  a  horse  of  a 
different  color.  He's  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  don't 
want  to  see  him  lose  his  position.  He  has  explained 
the  whole  thing  to  me,  and  just  how  he  happened  to 
get  into  the  papers.  When  Lee  says  a  thing  is  so  it's 
so,  and  you  can  depend  upon  it."  He  ended  with 
more  excitement  than  he  had  begun,  bringing  his 
fist  down  on  the  table  and  fairly  glaring  at  the 
president. 

"I  didn't  doubt  his  word,  Judge,"  Babington  in- 
terposed hurriedly.  "There  was  a  mere  misunder- 
standing." He  was  on  the  defensive  now  and  pre- 
sented his  side  of  the  question  to  the  meeting  in  its 
best  light.  The  judge  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  lis- 
tened impatiently.  Babington  explained '  the  dis- 
pute concerning  the  entrance  requirements,  and 
showed  that  the  conservatism  of  Lee  and  Everett 
was  keeping  down  the  attendance,  to  the  detriment 
of  the  university.  It  was  a  strong  argument  to  use 
before  a  group  of  men  of  whom  the  majority  were 


BROUGHT    TO    BAY  303 

not  college  graduates,  men  by  training  and  experi- 
ence hostile  to  the  humanities.  But  he  pleaded  too 
well,  and  presently  the  judge  interrupted. 

"Numbers  aren't  everything,  Mr.  Babington,  and 
the  professors  are  overworked  and  underpaid  as  it 
is.  The  more  students  the  more  teachers,  and  our 
income  will  have  to  increase  materially  before  we 
can  expand  to  any  great  extent.  I'm  not  alarmed 
about  the  attendance  of  the  university.  As  for  the 
Latin  and  Greek,  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  con- 
tinue to  demand  them  for  the  degree  of  Bachelor 
of  Arts.  We've  invented  three  or  four  other  de- 
grees to  fit  the  wants  of  the  times.  I'd  like  to  see 
that  one  degree  mean  what  it  used  to  when  I  was 
in  college.  Even  if  we  did  lose  a  hundred  students 
this  year  I  don't  think  the  way  to  make  up  the  num- 
ber is  to  let  down  the  bars  in  that  fashion." 

Babington  saw  that  no  one  was  inclined  to  take 
his  part,  and  that  he  must  yield.  His  only  concern 
now  was  to  back  down  with  what  grace  and  dignity 
he  could  summon.  He  was  still  groping  for  a  be- 
ginning when  the  judge  continued. 

"You'll  excuse  me  for  saying,  Mr.  Babington, 
that  this  trouble  with  the  faculty  has  gone  about  far 
enough,  in  the  opinion  of  the  board.  It's  getting  to 
be  a  scandal  all  over  the  country.  I  heard  about  it  in 
New  York,  and  of  course  I  stood  up  for  you.  But 
it  isn't  right  that  all  the  papers  in  the  country  should 
be  down  on  us.  And  here,  too,  the  press  is  hostile. 
It  never  used  to  be  so,  and  it  must  stop  where  it  is." 

As  the  president  listened  to  these  words  he  saw 
that  his  very  position  depended  upon  his  yielding, 


304  THE   TORCH 

and  his  hatred  of  the  man  that  had  brought  him  to 
bay  was  almost  more  than  he  could  endure.  He 
longed  to  throw  back  the  defiance  of  that  hateful, 
triumphant  gaze,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  ambi- 
tion, but  the  impulse  was  abortive.  The  taste  of  his 
own  medicine  was  bitter,  but  he  swallowed  it  as  best 
he  could.  In  spite  of  all  that  could  be  said  against 
the  judge's  character,  and  his  record  was  none  of 
the  best,  his  victory  over  Babington  was  moral 
rather  than  brutal.  It  was  this  fact  that  made  the 
president's  attempt  to  maintain  his  dignity  a  pitiful 
pretense.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  at  the 
faces  about  the  long  table,  some  amused,  some  em- 
barrassed, some  studiedly  non-committal,  some 
openly  hostile. 

"Of  course,  Judge,  the  fact  that  Professor  Lee  is 
a  personal  friend  of  yours  puts  another  face  on  the 
question  entirely.  No  one  is  more  anxious  than  I 
to  end  the  unhappy  situation  at  the  university,  and 
I  think  we  may  consider  the  incident  closed.  With 
this  exception,  I  am  now  in  complete  harmony  with 
the  faculty,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  Mr.  Lee  and  I 
shall  come  to  a  better  understanding  and  apprecia- 
tion of  each  other.  As  a  personal  favor  to  you, 
Judge,  I  will  reconsider  my  action  and  accept  your 
suggestion." 

"Call  it  that  if  you  like,"  the  regent  retorted  dry- 
ly. "Call  it  a  suggestion  if  you  like." 

Babington  smiled  as  if  he  had  heard  a  jest  rather 
than  a  taunt  and  once  more  gathered  up  his  papers. 
At  the  action  there  was  a  general  scraping  of  chairs, 
and  the  men  stood  up.  The  president  bade  them  a 


BROUGHT    TO   BAY  305 

hasty  good  day  and  went  out  alone.  Only  after 
he  had  left  the  building  did  he  remember  that  he 
had  forgotten  to  save  appearances  at  the  end  by 
proposing  once  more  a  motion  to  adjourn.  The 
meeting  had  broken  up  spontaneously  when  his 
humiliation  was  complete,  and  his  departure  was 
like  a  flight. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A    BROKEN    VASE 

When  the  president  reached  his  room  he  was  sur- 
prised to  find  an  invitation  to  dinner  from  Mrs. 
Van  Sant.  It  was  thus  he  learned  of  her  return, 
and  his  self-respect  was  somehow  restored  by  her 
friendly,  informal  note.  He  thought  it  likely  that 
she  would  ask  him  about  his  trouble  with  Lee,  but 
he  had  no  fear  that  she  would  call  him  to  account. 

There  was  no  delay  in  his  rapid  preparations,  for 
everything  he  needed  was  kept  ready  to  his  hand 
by  his  sister's  watchful  care.  He  took  a  nip  of 
whiskey  and  his  restoration  was  complete.  It  gave 
him  an  additional  satisfaction  to  reflect  that  he 
would  be  driven  in  his  own  carriage  by  his  own 
coachman  for  the  first  time.  Hitherto  he  had  kept 
his  saddle  horse  in  a  livery  stable,  but  Mrs.  Tupper 
had  added  an  appropriate  stable  to  his  fine  house. 
She  had  given  it  secretly,  as  a  private  gift,  and 
though  he  endeavored  to  accept  it  as  a  gift  to  the 
university,  she  would  have  none  of  the  subterfuge. 
He  was  profoundly  thankful  that  her  increasing 
feebleness  made  it  impracticable  for  him  to  take  her 
driving  in  return.  He  found  it  difficult  to  allay 
her  suspicion  and  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant,  and 

306 


A   BROKEN   VASE  307 

the  thought  that  he  was  about  to  drive  in  her  car- 
riage to  dine  with  her  rival  gave  him  a  titillation 
of  cynical  amusement. 

About  half-past  six  the  bright  lamps  of  his  car- 
riage stopped  before  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  door,  and 
he  came  forth  resplendent.  The  blue  devils  had  de- 
parted from  his  soul  and  made  way  for  comforting 
familiar  spirits.  They  whispered  that  Lee  was  not 
the  man  to  glory  in  his  victory,  and  that,  with  care- 
ful handling,  he  could  manage  the  judge  in  future. 

Babington  had  given  only  a  partial  credence  to 
Mrs.  Tupper's  caustic  analysis  of  her  rival,  but  he 
knew  by  experience  that  Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  a  wom- 
an of  moods.  At  the  table  her  good  spirits  matched 
his  own,  and  Robert  forgot  his  disapproval  of  them 
both  in  his  enjoyment  of  the  conversation.  It  was 
only  when  they  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
however,  that  the  president's  felicity  was  complete. 
No  repetition  could  dull  the  edge  of  his  appreciation 
of  her  peculiar  charm.  If  he  did  not  think  her  an 
angel,  he  could  still  admire  the  glory  of  her  hair 
in  the  softly  shaded  lamplight,  he  could  still  inhale 
the  atmosphere  of  elegance  that  radiated  from  her 
presence,  he  could  still  be  fascinated  by  the  hide- 
and-seek  of  her  elusive  moods. 

As  Mrs.  Van  Sant  sipped  her  coffee  and  looked 
at  her  guest  across  the  little  table,  she  realized  that 
he  had  never  appealed  to  her  more  strongly;  he 
seemed,  very  much  a  man  of  affairs,  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  she  was  profoundly  interested  in  the 
game  he  was  playing.  She  took  a  hospitable  satis- 
faction in  his  cigar,  and  thought  of  the  first  dinner 


308  THE   TORCH 

he  had  attended  in  her  house.  That  first  conversa- 
tion was  very  youthful  in  the  retrospect ;  they  never 
spoke  of  poetry  now,  and  it  seemed  years  since  she 
had  urged  him  to  write  it.  She  had  gradually 
adapted  herself  to  his  changing  character,  not  with- 
out inward  protests,  but  she  was  not  a  man-re- 
former. She  could  scarcely  tell  at  what  time  the 
scales  had  fallen  from  her  eyes  and  she  had  looked 
at  him  with  fatal  comprehension.  Something  was 
gone  between  them  which  could  not  return.  She 
would  not  have  the  element  of  romance  restored, 
together  with  the  torturing  suspicion  of  pretense, 
and  yet  she  felt  the  poorer  for  its  loss.  But  could 
she  be  sure  that  it  was  gone  for  good  ?  If  she  still 
cared  to  see  him  so  much,  might  it  not  be  possible 
that  romance  would  return?  Perhaps  she  was 
clinging  to  a  girl's  ideal,  one  never  to  be  realized. 
Perhaps  her  doubt  was  merely  the  bitter  fruit  of 
the  tree  of  knowledge  of  life.  She  shook  off  her 
meditations  and  came  back  to  events. 

"What  was  the  real  trouble  with  Professor  Lee  ?" 
she  asked.  "One  can't  trust  the  papers,  and  I  am 
so  much  interested.  You  know  how  fond  I  am  of 
him."  Her  unaffected  admission  of  attachment  to 
Lee  showed  the  president  that  his  conjecture  was 
correct.  There  had  never  been  a  romance  between 
them. 

"It  was  just  a  little  misunderstanding,"  he  an- 
swered in  his  frank  manner,  "magnified  by  the  pa- 
pers into  an  open  breach.  Naturally  I  was  hurt 
that  he  should  criticize  me  before  reporters,  and  de- 
manded an  explanation.  It  appeared  that  he  didn't 


A   BROKEN   VASE  309 

know  a  reporter  was  present,  and  that  he  wasn't 
talking  for  publication.  Even  so,  I  could  scarcely 
treat  him  with  the  same  cordiality  after  knowing 
what  he  thought  of  me." 

"Of  course  not,"  she  assented.  "Then  he  isn't 
going  to  lose  his  position?" 

The  president  laughed. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it;  that's  all  newspaper  talk.  At 
first  I  did  ask  for  his  resignation,  naturally  enough, 
for  I  supposed  he  could  not  care  to  teach  in  a  uni- 
versity presided  over  by  such  a  villain.  It's  all 
smoothed  over  now,  and  I  hope  he'll  try  to  revise 
his  unfavorable  opinion  of  me." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  bitterness  in  his  heart,  and 
her  eyes  shone  in  admiration  of  his  magnanimity. 
But  a  mocking  doubt  gave  her  pause.  She  knew  of 
the  long  struggle  between  the  two  men;  it  was  not 
thus  that  he  usually  spoke  of  his  opponents.  This 
was  an  extraordinary  climax  to  a  protracted  duel  in 
which  she  had  noted  increasing  irritation  and  bit- 
terness. But  she  had  her  own  moods  also.  Per- 
haps something  unusually  pleasant  had  occurred  to 
soothe  him ;  perhaps  he  really  respected  Lee  and  was 
glad  of  the  reconciliation;  perhaps,  and  her  heart 
was  stirred  by  the  thought,  it  was  her  own  return 
that  had  worked  the  miracle. 

"I  can  understand,"  she  answered  meditatively, 
"how  strong  a  personal  antagonism  may  become, 
and  yet  it  seems  strange  to  me  that  two  men,  both 
of  whom  I  like  so  much,  should  dislike  each  other. 
But  I'm  glad  he  isn't  going  to  lose  his  place;  he's 
really  so  clever  and  so  fond  of  the  university.  He 


310  THE   TORCH 

doesn't  mean  half  what  he  says.  I  could  have  told 
you  that." 

The  president  suddenly  leaned  across  the  table 
and  took  her  hand  firmly  in  both  his  own.  He  had 
dared  to  obey  his  impulse,  and  the  deed  seemed 
strangely  easy  and  natural,  now  that  it  was  done. 

"You're  wise  in  your  generation,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing his  admiration.  "I  wish  I  had  asked  your  ad- 
vice before.  I  need  such  a  woman  for  my  guide, 
philosopher,  and — wife.  Will  you?" 

She  struggled  a  moment  to  withdraw  her  hand, 
and  then  desisted. 

"Mr.  Babington,"  she  demanded,  "is  this  a  busi- 
ness proposition?" 

His  heart  leaped  as  he  realized  that  she  was  not 
angry,  but  before  he  could  frame  a  reply  he  saw 
the  look  in  her  eyes  change.  She  rose  quickly  to 
her  feet  and  swept  by  him,  her  silken  skirts  brushing 
his  knees. 

"Professor  Plow,"  she  cried,  "this  is  an  unexpect- 
ed pleasure !  You're  just  in  time  for  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee." 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  Plow  answered  heartily.  "I 
see  you  still  stick  to  my  old  title.  Hello !" 

The  last  word  was  not  a  salutation,  but  an  inter- 
jection of  surprise,  chagrin,  anything  but  pleasure, 
for  the  president  had  risen  to  his  feet.  Mrs.  Van 
Sant  threw  him  an  appealing  glance. 

"How  do  you  do,  sir?"  Babington  said,  neither 
effusively  nor  coldly.  Plow  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure and  answered  with  equal  brevity.  Their 
hostess  did  not  stop  to  see  that  there  was  something 


A    BROKEN    VASE  311 

comical  in  the  way  they  eyed  each  other,  like  two 
great,  dubious  dogs.  She  deftly  rolled  a  chair 
nearer  the  fire. 

"Do  be  seated,"  she  urged.     "It's  so  cold  out." 

She  controlled  the  trembling  of  her  hands  and 
poured  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"I've  forgotten  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  you 
take.  There ;  I've  put  in  three  by  mistake." 

"I  shall  have  to  call  this  syrup,"  Plow  remarked. 
"No,  not  another  cup ;  I  really  like  it  sweet." 

"Mrs.  Van  Sant  is  always  generous  to  a  fault," 
the  president  commented  easily.  He  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  the  intrusion  and  was  able  to  re- 
alize the  strain  and  excitement  underneath  her  ap- 
parent unconcern  and  cordiality.  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  sense  of  pride  and  possession  as  she  talked 
on  about  the  weather,  the  theater,  anything  that 
would  make  conversation,  and  he  came  to  her  aid  as 
opportunity  was  presented. 

The  unwelcome  visitor  sat  holding  his  cup  and 
regarding  them  both  with  deep  speculation  in  his 
inscrutable  eyes.  She  saw  the  pain  behind  the 
mask,  and  her  heart  was  touched.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  be  too  cordial.  The  president  divined  her 
emotions  and  was  not  distressed.  It  was  easy  for 
him  to  be  magnanimous  now,  and  he  was  almost 
sorry  for  the  intruder.  This  was  his  second  and 
final  triumph  over  his  enemy.  Plow  must  have 
divined  the  situation  he  interrupted  and  must  now 
know  that  his  daring  hopes  were  fatuous.  Bab- 
ington  even  had  a  vague  idea  of  making  some 
amends  for  that  incident  on  the  road. 


312  THE   TORCH 

"I  understand  you  will  capture  the  Labor  Union 
nomination  for  governor,"  he  remarked,  as  if  in 
friendly  interest. 

"That  is  for  the  convention  to  decide,"  Plow  re- 
plied. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  doubted  the  wisdom  of  Babing- 
ton's  lead,  but  struck  in  boldly. 

"I  know  you  will  get  it.  If  I  were  a  man  I 
should  be  a  politician  in  preference  to  anything  else. 
Don't  you  find  it  fascinating?" 

"I  like  it,"  he  answered  briefly. 

She  felt  that  he  had  put  her  down,  but  her  heart 
forgave  him.  She  saw  that  her  intuition  was  cor- 
rect; the  president  had  introduced  an  unfortunate 
subject,  but  she  accounted  it  a  blunder  rather  than 
a  malicious  intention.  The  professor  never  seemed 
more  dignified  than  in  his  present  self-contain- 
ment. He  must  know  that  they  thought  the  Labor 
Union  party  a  forlorn  hope  of  visionaries  and  mal- 
contents. She  herself  did  not  believe  that  the  tra- 
ditional division  between  Republicans  and  Demo- 
crats could  be  broken  up.  No  leader  had  yet  been 
able  to  fuse  the  workingmen,  as  workingmen,  into 
a  victorious  army,  and  she  felt  that  Daniel  Plow 
was  not  the  man  to  do  it.  He  had  not  saved  the 
state  for  his  party  in  the  last  campaign  and  she  did 
not  believe  that  he  could  win  it  for  himself  by  de- 
serting the  Democrats  and  going  over  to  the  Labor 
Unionists.  She  had  even  shared  Babington's 
amusement  when  the  professor  made  a  bid  for  popu- 
larity by  joining  the  Blacksmiths'  Union,  but  now 
that  he  was  present  she  felt  only  the  pathos  of  his 


A   BROKEN   VASE  313 

hopes.  She  gave  the  president  a  cautioning  look, 
but  he  seemed  strangely  perverse  or  stupid. 

"The  Labor  Union  party  has  gained  a  victory  in 
Connecticut,  I  see,"  he  continued.  "They've  elect- 
ed an  Irish  plumber  mayor  in  one  of  their  towns. 
They  say  he's  an  honest  man." 

He  hoped  to  introduce  a  discussion  in  which  he 
meant  to  conceal  his  own  opinions  and  to  be  sym- 
pathetic, but  Plow  did  not  relish  his  air  of  patron- 
age nor  the  reference  to  the  plumber. 

"An  honest  man,"  he  echoed.  "Impossible,  in 
the  case  of  a  plumber."  The  jest  was  conventional, 
but  Babington  was  disconcerted  by  the  comprehend- 
ing gaze  that  accompanied  it.  He  understood  that 
Plow  knew  his  real  opinions  and  his  present  inten- 
tions too  well  to  allow  the  farce  to  continue  and  that 
he  had  no  intention  of  exposing  his  soul  before  them. 
A  flash  of  hostility  passed  between  the  men,  and  the 
air  suddenly  became  charged  with  a  tense  excite- 
ment in  which  something  extraordinary  might  hap- 
pen. Mrs.  Van  Sant  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  story 
of  a  plumber  taken  bodily  from  a  comic  paper,  and 
the  situation  was  saved. 

The  next  half-hour  seemed  a  lifetime  to  the 
hostess.  Babington's  geniality  began  to  ebb  from 
the  time  he  felt  himself  worsted  and  scorned  by  the 
man  he  would  have  patronized,  and  he  could  scarce- 
ly keep  up  the  pretense  of  helping  her.  He  resent- 
ed Plow's  presence  more  and  more,  and  Mrs.  Van 
Sant's  persistent  cordiality  became  increasingly  ir- 
ritating. His  impatient  blood  tingled  to  renew  the 
situation  in  which  he  had  been  interrupted.  The 


3H  THE   TORCH 

man  had  been  treated  better  than  he  deserved,  and  it 
was  time  for  him  to  go.  He  was  almost  betrayed 
into  open  rudeness,  and  his  eyes  took  on  an  ugly 
look. 

She  could  not  fail  to  detect  his  change  of  atti- 
tude and  to  resent  it.  Their  little  conspiracy  of 
kindness  was  transmuted  into  a  subtile  struggle. 
She  demanded  real  magnanimity  from  him,  but  he 
was  small  enough  to  be  jealous  and  mean  enough 
to  desert  her.  She  determined  to  make  the  pro- 
fessor stay  as  long  as  possible,  but  presently  he 
arose,  pushing  her  protest  firmly  aside.  Appar- 
ently, he  forgot  to  bid  the  president  good  night, 
and  Babington  did  not  attempt  to  rise. 

As  he  made  his  way  to  the  door  he  knocked  a 
rare  vase  from  a  table  and  it  broke  in  fragments 
on  the  floor.  His  hostess  followed  him  out  into  the 
hall,  turning  aside  his  apologies  with  laughing  and 
mendacious  protestations.  Babington  stood  up 
and  fingered  a  book  on  the  table  while  he  listened 
to  the  murmur  of  their  voices  in  the  hall.  He 
heard  the  ripple  of  her  light  laughter,  the  vibrations 
of  his  deeper  tones,  and  his  heart  was  hot  within 
him.  Would  she  never  let  the  fellow  go? 

When  she  came  back  into  the  room  she  was  pre- 
pared to  forgive  him.  After  all,  his  jealousy  was 
not  altogether  displeasing  to  her,  now  that  the 
strain  was  past.  She  was  thinking  of  Plow  in  a 
softened  mood.  He  had  seemed  very  simple  and 
manly  in  his  renunciation  of  her,  and  her  heart  con- 
tracted with  pity  to  think  that  he  was  going  forth 
alone  to  meet  another  defeat.  Her  mind  was  more 


A   BROKEN   VASE  315 

absorbed  for  the  moment  with  the  man  that  had 
gone  than  with  the  man  that  remained,  and  she 
knew  that  the  president  would  understand.  She 
looked  up  with  an  expectant  smile  and  encountered 
his  expression  of  jealous  rage. 

"Is  the  blacksmith  gone?"  he  demanded. 

She  stood  still,  her  eyes  wide  with  incredulous 
wonder.  Could  she  have  heard  aright? 

"I  was  so  impatient  to  have  you  to  myself 
again,"  he  apologized.  She  was  near  him  once 
more,  and  his  own.  It  seemed  but  a  moment  since 
he  had  taken  her  hand  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 
The  intoxication  of  that  daring  venture  returned. 
He  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

She  disengaged  herself  and  stood  looking  at  him 
coldly.  Then  she  stooped  and  began  to  pick  up 
the  fragments  of  the  vase.  He  helped  her  with 
trembling  hands,  and  in  silence.  A  short  hour 
before  he  had  felt  sure  that  she  loved  him ;  now  he 
only  knew  that  he  loved  her  and  had  lost  her,  per- 
haps forever.  She  seemed  solely  intent  upon  re- 
covering the  smallest  fragment  of  the  vase.  Once 
their  hands  touched  as  they  reached  for  the  same 
piece,  but  she  did  not  appear  to  notice  that  he  was 
helping  her,  much  less  to  be  conscious  of  the  touch. 

Finally  they  stood  up,  and  he  laid  the  pieces  he 
had  collected  on  the  table.  She  surveyed  him  with 
no  sign  of  emotion. 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Won't  you  let  me  explain  ?"  he  faltered. 

"Explanations  are  more  painful  than  necessary," 
she  answered,  in  an  even,  dispassionate  tone. 


316  THE   TORCH 

He  would  have  taken  her  hand,  but  she  still  held 
the  china  and  did  not  appear  to  notice  his  impul- 
sive gesture.  He  saw  that  further  entreaty  was 
useless,  and  left  the  room  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AN   ANCHOR   TO    WINDWARD 

The  president  did  not  cross  Mrs.  Van  Sant's 
threshold  again  until  he  called  to  bid  her  good  by 
for  the  summer.  Pride  and  humiliation  kept  him 
away,  and  he  waited  for  time  to  heal  the  estrange- 
ment. When  he  met  her  occasionally  at  other 
places  he  had  reason  to  congratulate  himself  upon 
his  method.  The  conventionalities  fought  for  him 
at  first,  and  finally  he  divined  that  her  graciousness 
was  not  entirely  conventional.  By  the  simplest 
move  in  the  game  of  love  he  succeeded  in  transfer- 
ring the  pique  from  his  own  heart  to  hers.  With- 
out analyzing  her  own  motives  more  deeply,  she 
was  conscious  that  she  had  no  desire  to  lose  her 
hold  on  one  of  the  most  important  men  in  the  state. 
He  must  be  brought  back,  if  only  to  satisfy  her  van- 
ity. And  so  he  returned  quite  easily,  as  if  nothing 
had  occurred  to  drive  him  away. 

The  announcement  of  Mrs.  Tupper's  gift  of  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars  for  the  new  recitation 
hall  had  given  Babington's  second  commencement 
an  eclat  scarcely  inferior  to  the  first,  -though  his 
satisfaction  was  lessened  by  Everett's  and  Lee's 
continued  success  in  regard  to  the  entrance  require- 

317 


318  THE   TORCH 

ments.  He  allowed  Mrs.  Van  Sant  no  glimpse  of 
the  bitterness  of  this  check,  however,  nor  did  Plow's 
recent  nomination  for  governor  at  the  hands  of  the 
Labor  Unionists  provoke  him  to  a  word  of  com- 
ment. She  had  no  need  to  exert  herself  to  keep  his 
farewell  call  within  conventional  limits,  for  he  kept 
it  there  himself.  He  did  not  even  ask  if  he  might 
write  to  her.  She  was  amused  at  his  pretended  in- 
difference, and  yet  provoked  that  he  had  stolen  her 
role.  But  he  played  the  part  too  well,  and  she 
knew  that  distance  would  not  lessen  her  hold  on 
him.  They  parted  with  mutual  good  wishes  for 
the  summer,  and  as  she  watched  him  striding  down 
the  walk  she  thought  of  that  other  parting  a  year 
before,  not  without  a  touch  of  wistfulness  and  an 
admiration  for  his  pride  and  finesse. 

Professor  Plow  captured  the  Labor  Union  con- 
vention, and  the  convention  felt  that  it  had  captured 
him.  His  winter  of  quiet  work  had  not  been  in 
vain,  and  his  organization  was  so  complete  that  the 
result  of  the  ballot  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  The 
Labor  Unionists  were  proud  of  their  candidate; 
they  felt  that  he  was  one  of  them.  He  had  risen 
by  his  own  efforts  to  a  high  position  in  the  educa- 
tional world,  he  had  been  thrown  from  that  posi- 
tion because  he  championed  the  workers'  rights,  and 
now  he  was  to  be  their  standard-bearer  against  the 
proud  man's  contumely  wherever  found. 

They  appreciated  his  university  connection,  a 
connection  that  would  have  injured  the  chances  of 
another  kind  of  man.  Plow  had  early  turned  the 
handicap  into  an  advantage.  The  many  friends 


AN   ANCHOR   TO    WINDWARD     319 

he  had  unwittingly  made  by  his  lectures  in  previous 
years  now  rose  up  to  hail  him  as  their  leader  and  de- 
liverer. During  all  those  years  he  had  never  talked 
down  to  them;  they  had  never  been  conscious 
that  he  considered  himself  their  superior,  though 
they  felt  a  difference  that  he  would  have  been  the 
first  to  disclaim. 

The  university,  after  all,  had  set  its  mark  on 
him  and  invested  him  with  a  peculiar  claim  to  re- 
spect. He  was  of  all  men  most  approachable,  and 
yet  there  was  an  invisible  line,  invisible  even  to 
himself,  which  no  one  ventured  to  cross.  The  story 
of  his  life  was  a  romance  that  appealed  to  the  rank 
and  file.  The  mysterious,  lambent  glow  of  the 
blacksmith's  forge  seemed  still  to  linger  in  his  eyes ; 
his  sympathies  were  still  with  the  men  of  the  fac- 
tory and  the  shop  and  the  farm ;  yet  his  manner  of 
expression  was  not  theirs.  He  appealed  to  them 
as  an  example  of  what  any  one  of  their  class  might 
become  when  all  had  their  rights;  in  a  word,  they 
felt  that  he  was  a  gentleman. 

Moreover,  when  Plow  came  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Labor  Unionists  he  came  bearing  his  sheaves  with 
him.  Many  enthusiastic  young  alumni  of  the  uni- 
versity, his  old  students,  followed  in  his  wake,  and 
he  used  them  in  various  ways.  Some  of  them  he 
sent  to  make  speeches  from  trucks  at  the  corners  of 
the  streets;  some  he  used  to  disseminate  campaign 
literature;  from  some  he  exacted  a  substantial  con- 
tribution to  the  campaign  fund;  and  some  he  sup- 
pressed for  the  good  of  the  party. 

Not  all  came  in  the  spirit  of  their  leader.     A  few 


320  THE   TORCH 

young  lawyers,  disappointed  in  their  previous  po- 
litical ambitions,  coolly  estimated  Plow's  chances 
and  threw  in  their  lot  with  him  for  personal  gain. 
It  was  no  easy  task  to  weld  this  infusion  into  the 
original  mass,  but  the  hand  at  the  bellows  blew 
them  all  into  a  glowing  fire  of  enthusiasm.  The 
original  men  of  the  party,  the  men  that  had  borne 
the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  were  given  to  un- 
derstand that  those  who  came  at  the  eleventh  hour 
would  not  receive  the  same  political  penny  with 
themselves.  When  this  became  known  some  of  the 
new  aspirants  withdrew  in  disgust;  others  re- 
mained, some  to  work  for  love  of  the  cause  and  its 
leader,  others  in  hope  of  a  ha'penny  if  denied  the 
whole. 

Before  the  campaign  was  a  month  old  the  skepti- 
cal began  to  wonder  and  doubt.  The  Times,  after 
a  few  days  of  uncertainty  between  the  Democrats 
and  the  Labor  Unionists,  came  out  flat-footed  for 
the  latter  and  nailed  Plow's  banner  to  its  flagstaff. 
The  candidate  had  learned  his  lesson.  He  knew 
now  that  too  many  planks  spoiled  the  political  plat- 
form, and  he  confined  his  attention  to  the  wrongs 
of  the  working  men.  There  was  no  talk  of  free 
silver,  and  the  only  imperialism  mentioned  was  the 
imperialism  of  the  trusts. 

As  the  summer  wore  on  Babington  heard  in- 
credulously from  a  distance  of  the  changing  spirit 
of  the  political  battle  in  the  west.  The  impression 
was  gaining  ground  that  this  was  the  year  of  the 
under  dog.  The  Republicans  had  nothing  to  con- 
tribute to  state  issues;  the  Democratic  party  had 


AN    ANCHOR   TO    WINDWARD     321 

become  a  Cassandra  still  droning  to  deaf  ears  an 
ancient  prophecy  of  disaster;  but  the  Labor  Union- 
ists were  compact,  explicit,  desperate.  They  meant 
to  elect  a  governor  and  a  legislature  that  would  do 
something  for  them  there  in  the  state.  It  would 
be  time  enough  to  discuss  national  issues  during  the 
next  national  campaign. 

Babington  had  attended  the  annual  meeting  of 
the  Ethnological  Society,  he  had  interviewed  new 
candidates  for  his  faculty,  he  had  visited  his  friends, 
and  was  spending  the  remnant  of  his  vacation  at  a 
fashionable  summer  resort.  As  he  sat  on  the  ver- 
anda of  his  hotel  he  looked  lazily  over  the  sea  and 
read  his  favorite  New  York  paper,  the  clever  preach- 
er of  the  gospel  of  good  humor.  He  chuckled  as 
he  read  the  occasional  skits  and  fleers  at  Plow  which 
appeared  in  those  columns.  The  professor  was 
traveling  through  the  state  under  a  tent  pitched  on 
a  flatcar,  and  the  paper  waxed  merry  over  the 
greatest  political  circus  on  earth,  over  Dan  Plow, 
the  presto-change  artist,  the  octopus-smasher,  the 
trust-buster,  the  megaphone  of  flubdub. 

These  comments  made  Plow's  cause  ridiculous 
in  the  president's  eyes.  In  the  copies  of  The  Times 
which  reached  him  he  read  some  of  the  candidate's 
speeches  and  thought  them  as  flat  as  the  car  from 
which  they  were  spoken.  He  was  himself  an  ef- 
fective speaker  and  had  cultivated  a  verbal  dex- 
terity that  passed  for  wit.  He  confused  Plow's 
heavy  person  with  his  mind,  and  could  not  appre- 
ciate the  rich  vein  of  native  humor  in  his  enemy 
that  made  his  jokes  so  dear  to  the  people.  Be- 


322  THE   TORCH 

hind  the  cold  print  he  could  not  see  the  whimsical 
gleam  of  those  mysterious  eyes;  he  failed  to  catch 
the  swing  and  power  of  the  passionate  appeals. 

Only  when  he  traveled  westward  in  September 
did  the  din  of  the  political  battle  take  on  another 
and  more  threatening  sound.  Within  the  borders 
of  the  state  he  looked  from  the  car  windows  and 
saw  Plow's  banner  hung  across  the  streets  of  the 
towns  through  which  he  passed.  His  fellow  pas- 
sengers, the  very  brakemen  and  porters,  were 
prophesying  or  fearing  a  Labor  Union  victory,  as 
their  respective  interests  dictated.  At  the  capital 
the  atmosphere  of  feverish  excitement  was  inten- 
sified. The  flags  and  banners  of  the  rival  candi- 
dates gave  the  city  a  holiday  appearance.  Staid 
business  men  walked  the  streets  with  anxious  faces, 
as  if  in  the  shadow  of  impending  disaster;  but  the 
working  men  seemed  to  step  jauntily,  anticipating 
the  imminent  day  of  their  emancipation. 

Babington  was  glad  to  bury  himself  in  Argos 
and  to  divert  his  mind  with  the  numerous  duties 
that  crowded  in  upon  him.  He  scarcely  read  the 
daily  accounts  of  Plow's  speeches,  and  refused  to 
think  of  the  possibility  of  his  election.  He  was 
like  an  ostrich  hiding  its  head  in  the  sand.  When 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  returned  he  went  to  her  as  to  a 
refuge  in  time  of  trouble.  Plow  had  openly  at- 
tacked him  in  several  of  his  speeches,  but  he  al- 
lowed no  impatient  word  against  his  enemy  to  es- 
cape him  in  her  presence.  Only  he  and  Fyffe,  when 
alone,  joined  in  damning  him  beyond  redemption. 
He  saw  that  she  did  not  think  Plow  would  win, 


AN   ANCHOR   TO   WINDWARD     323 

and  his  own  confidence  was  restored.  He  felt  that 
his  self-control  was  not  without  its  effect  upon  her, 
and  that  his  long  penance  was  drawing  to  an  end. 
It  was  as  if  everything  were  still  unsaid  between 
them,  as  if  everything  were  still  possible. 

Mrs.  Tupper  was  less  comforting.  He  had 
never  known  her  so  querulous  and  captious.  One 
day,  about  a  fortnight  before  the  election,  he  re- 
ceived a  summons  from  her,  and  he  went  over  to 
the  capital  to  find  her  in  a  state  of  panic.  She 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  a  green  worsted 
shawl  drawn  tightly  about  her  shoulders,  and  talked 
more  savagely,  more  wildly,  than  he  had  ever  heard 
her  talk  before.  As  he  sat  and  looked  at  her  he 
was  conscious  of  the  ghastly  effect  of  the  green 
shawl  against  her  yellow  cheeks.  Her  long  fight 
against  ill  health  had  been  in  vain,  and  she  looked 
ten  years  older  than  when  he  first  saw  her.  Only 
her  indomitable  will  to  live  kept  her  from  her  bed, 
and  excitement,  not  strength,  supported  her  trem- 
bling limbs. 

"I  tell  you,  Professor,"  she  cried,  her  thin  lips 
twitching,  "that  man  will  be  elected.  I  feel  it  in 
my  bones.  I've  followed  many  a  campaign,  and 
you  can't  fool  me.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  last 
June,  but  the  people  are  going  crazy  over  him. 
He's  promised  to  pension  all  the  old  working  men, 
and  to  give  them  all  a  share  in  the  'public  utilities,' 
as  he  calls  them.  That  means  a  share  in  the  things 
I  own.  He  calls  that  sort  of  robbery  Christianity 
and  justice.  He  says  the  early  Christians  were 
socialists.  Socialists  indeed!" 


324  THE   TORCH 

As  Babington  listened  his  heart  misgave  him. 
All  the  accumulated  fear  he  had  not  admitted  to 
himself  now  broke  over  the  barrier  he  had  built 
up  against  it  and  came  flooding  in  upon  him.  He 
faced  the  possibility  of  Plow's  victory  and  what  it 
would  mean  to  him. 

"That  will  be  the  end  of  everything,"  she  cried. 
"If  that  anarchist  becomes  governor  he'll  rob  me 
of  every  last  cent,  and  I  shall  die  in  the  poorhouse. 
What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?" 

Babington's  round  eyes  held  a  look  of  irrita- 
tion and  contempt.  It  was  sheer  perversity  for  her 
to  talk  about  the  poorhouse  when  she  knew  that 
the  interest  of  the  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
which  she  first  gave  to  the  university  would  be  paid 
her  as  long  as  she  lived.  Either  she  was  perverse, 
or  else  she  was  losing  her  mind. 

"Come,  come,  Mrs.  Tupper,"  he  said  soothingly, 
"you  excite  yourself  unnecessarily.  Suppose  he  is 
elected.  It's  much  harder  to  change  the  laws  than 
his  constituents  think.  He  won't  carry  out  his 
promises,  anyhow.  That  talk  is  just  political  thun- 
der. If  his  principles  ever  triumph  I  believe  they 
have  some  scheme  for  buying  the  public  utilities; 
they  don't  propose  to  confiscate  them.  He's  not 
really  an  anarchist,  you  know,  and  his  gang  can't 
interfere  with  invested  rights  and  private  property." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  retorted  shrilly, 
never  pausing  in  her  walk.  "They'll  try,  and  they 
can  do  something,  I  know.  I  shall  be  robbed,  as 
I  always  have  been.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

He  saw  that  she  was  in  one  of  her  periodic  pan- 


AN   ANCHOR   TO   WINDWARD     325 

ics  about  money  matters,  and  realized  anew  the 
strength  of  her  infatuation  for  himself.  It  must 
have  been  wonderfully  strong  to  prevail  against  the 
instincts  of  the  miser.  The  struggle  between  her 
growing  fear  of  poverty  and  the  love  that  made  her 
give  him  money  was  killing  her.  He  exerted  him- 
self to  show  that  her  fears  were  baseless,  and  finally 
his  efforts  were  successful.  She  sank  into  her  chair, 
exhausted. 

"But  what  about  yourself,  Professor?"  she  asked. 
"I  ain't  thinking  about  myself  altogether;  it's  you 
I'm  thinking  about  at  the  same  time.  What  can 
he  do  to  you  if  he  gets  governor?" 

"That's  just  it,"  he  rejoined  bitterly.  "He  can 
turn  me  out." 

She  almost  shrieked  in  sudden  fury  and  alarm. 
"He  can't!  I  won't  let  him!  I've  got  something 
to  say  about  it.  How  can  he?" 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer  the  fire  and  looked 
moodily  into  the  flames. 

"I'll  tell  you  how  the  matter  stands,"  he  answered. 
"Just  at  present  I  have  a  bare  majority  of  the  regents 
on  my  side.  There  are  fifteen  in  all,  and  I  can  or- 
dinarily count  on  eight  to  stand  by  me.  Even  they 
are  uncertain  since  Gates  came  back.  At  least  seven 
would  be  glad  to  see  me  go.  The  term  of  three  of 
my  friends  expires  just  after  the  new  governor,  who- 
ever he  is,  takes  his  seat.  The  governor  has  the 
power  of  appointment,  and  if  Plow  is  elected  he  will 
put  in  three  of  his  own  men,  making  a  majority  of 
ten  to  five  against  me.  They  won't  be  a  week  ask- 
ing for  my  resignation,  and  I'll  have  to  give  it." 


326  THE   TORCH 

During  this  explanation  she  sat  looking  at  him 
with  strained  attention,  her  yellow  forehead  wrink- 
ling and  her  heavy  brows  quivering  above  her  eager 
eyes. 

"And  that's  what  he's  been  up  to  all  this  time," 
she  remarked  grimly.  "I  didn't  think  he  was  so 
smart.  But  we'll  beat  him  yet.  We've  got  to 
think  up  some  scheme.  He  don't  take  his  seat  till 
March,  does  he?  That  gives  one  time  to  turn 
around." 

"It's  only  a  postponement,"  he  replied. 

"Can't  you  bring  some  of  your  enemies  over?" 
she  suggested  shrewdly.  "Who's  at  the  head  of 
'em?" 

"Judge  Gates;  he  has  been  my  enemy  from  the 
first.  He  has  organized  the  opposition  to  a  man, 
and  I  can't  break  it  up.  The  governor  is  too  anx- 
ious trying  to  win  his  reelection  to  give  me  a 
thought,  and  he  never  did  attend  the  meetings  of 
the  board.  As  for  Gates,  I've  done  everything  I 
could  think  of  to  please  him.  I  backed  down  in 
that  Lee  affair,  but  it's  no  use.  The  old  fox  is 
conducting  a  long,  still  hunt.  I  believe  he  hates 
me  enough  to  want  Plow  to  win,  much  as  he  hates 
Plow.  He's  got  Everett  slated  for  my  place. 
That's  the  game." 

"That  old  fool!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sniff  of 
contempt.  Then  she  came  back  to  the  problem. 
"You're  sure  Plow  will  do  that?"  You're  per- 
fectly sure?" 

"As  sure  as  he's  elected  he'll  do  it,  and  I  begin 


AN   ANCHOR   TO    WINDWARD     327 

to  think  he  will  be.  Whenever  he  has  had  a  chance 
to  make  capital  out  of  his  dismissal  he  hasn't  left 
a  shred  to  my  reputation.  You  know  that;  you've 
read  what  he  had  to  say." 

"I  wish  he  was  dead  before  me !"  she  flamed  out, 
beginning  to  resume  her  restless  pacing  of  the  room. 
"I  could  buy  them,"  she  muttered.  "I  could  buy 
and  sell  them,  but  what's  the  use?  It's  just  throw- 
ing good  money  after  bad.  I  won't  do  it ;  I  won't 
be  such  a  fool." 

Suddenly  she  stopped  by  his  side  and  placed  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Professor,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  trembling  voice, 
"I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I'm  not  going  to 
give  another  cent  to  that  university  of  yours.  I 
hate  it.  I  only  gave  it  for  your  sake,  but  I  won't 
give  a  cent  more,  not  a  cent.  What  do  I  care  about 
the  university?  It's  you  I  care  about.  You  can 
have  it  all."  She  broke  into  a  nervous  spasm  of 
laughter  and  tears,  and  her  last  words  were  scarcely 
articulate.  "You  can  have  it  all,  Professor,  if  you'll 
take  me." 

He  had  anticipated  this  moment.  He  had  even 
considered  seriously  this  final  refuge.  If  he  lost 
his  position  he  could  have  this  great  house  and  the 
handling  of  her  millions.  Besides,  she  could  not 
live  long.  He  would  soon  be  free  to  follow  his  own 
ambitions  or  pleasures.  He  would  be  a  rich  man, 
and  he  loved  riches  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  But,  as  far  as  he  could  love  any  woman, 
he  loved  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  He  thought  of  her  now, 


328  THE  TORCH 

and  could  not  speak.  But  not  only  that.  His 
physical  repulsion  from  the  old  woman  at  his  side 
was  almost  a  nausea. 

She  saw  his  hesitation  and  sprang  away  from 
him  with  a  cry  that  smote  his  heart  with  a  thrill  of 
strange  foreboding.  Her  thin,  gray  hair  fell  about 
her  shoulders  and  she  resumed  her  rapid,  swaying 
walk,  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  her  face  crim- 
son with  shame  and  fury,  crying  and  laughing  in  a 
breath.  He  had  never  before  seen  a  woman  in  the 
grip  of  hysteria,  and  sat  looking  at  her  in  speech- 
less horror.  He  thought  she  had  gone  mad.  She 
seemed  like  nothing  so  much  as  an  ancient  Erinys 
masquerading  in  modern  motley. 

"It's  because  you  want  that  little  red-headed 
minx,"  she  chattered  wildly,  "and  you  think  I'm  an 
old  woman.  I  could  kill  her!  I  ought  to  have 
killed  her  when  she  was  a  little  brat.  I  always  felt 
in  my  bones  that  she  would  bring  this  upon  me.  I 
know  I'm  a  devil,  but  it's  because  there's  a  little 
red  devil  running  around  in  my  head.  I  feel  it 
running  round  and  round.  Oh,  oh!  my  head  will 
split!" 

Her  voice  rose  to  a  scream,  and  he  sprang  from 
his  chair  in  terror.  He  seized  and  held  her  firmly 
by  both  her  arms.  She  swayed  and  would  have 
fallen  had  it  not  been  for  his  support. 

"Mrs.  Tapper,"  he  cried,  "stop  this  at  once! 
Control  yourself!" 

She  seemed  nothing  but  skin  and  bones  beneath 
her  heavy  dress,  and  he  could  have  lifted  her  bodily 
from  the  floor  with  scarcely  an  effort.  His  voice 


AN   ANCHOR   TO    WINDWARD     329 

and  touch  calmed  her,  though  she  moaned  still,  her 
head  rolling  from  side  to  side. 

"I'm  going  to  die!  I  know  I'm  going  to  die. 
You'll  kill  me !" 

"You're  not  going  to  die,"  he  answered. 
"You're  going  to  live — with  me." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  darted  him  a  look 
of  exultation.  The  next  moment  she  was  in  his 
arms,  in  an  apparent  swoon.  He  laid  her  on  the 
lounge  and  rang  the  bell  furiously.  The  servant 
came  in,  and  together  they  carried  Mrs.  Tupper  up 
to  her  room.  As  he  laid  her  on  the  bed  she  caught 
one  of  his  hands  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"You're  so  kind,"  she  murmured.  "I'll  be  bet- 
ter soon." 

He  shivered  at  the  touch  of  her  lips  and  drew 
away. 

"Make  her  comfortable,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  "and 
bring  her  some  brandy.  I'm  going  for  a  doctor." 

"No,  no,"  the  old  woman  protested;  "I  won't 
have  a  doctor.  I  won't  be  robbed  by  a  doctor." 

"You  shall  have  one,"  he  answered  sternly,  mov- 
ing toward  the  door.  "I  insist  upon  it." 

She  threw  him  a  look  of  coquetry  and  yielding, 
and  he  went  out  like  one  stealing  away  from  the 
scene  of  a  crime. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
FORTUNE'S  DARLING 

The  president  looked  at  Professor  Fyffe  through 
the  smoke  of  his  cigar. 

"Yes,"  he  said  meditatively,  "it  was  very  sudden 
to  most  people,  but  I  had  suspected  for  some  time 
that  Mrs.  Tupper  could  not  last  long.  To  think 
that  I  saw  her  only  eight  days  ago,  and  yesterday 
she  was  buried !  She  had  a  fainting  spell  that  day: 
I  had  thought  for  some  time  that  her  heart  was 
affected." 

"It  was  very  sudden,  though,  at  the  last,  was  it 
not?"  Fyffe  inquired  with  a  subdued  and  sym- 
pathetic air. 

"Yes,  for  she  seemed  to  be  getting  better.  But 
that's  the  way  with  heart  disease.  You  can  never 
tell.  Four  days  ago  she  got  up  and  dressed.  The 
servant  says  she  walked  about  the  house  and 
seemed  stronger  than  she  had  been  for  some  time. 
When  she  went  to  bed  she  refused  to  have  the  fire 
lighted,  and  kept  the  windows  open.  She  passed 
away  some  time  during  the  night." 

The  professor  shivered  and  extended  his  hands 
to  the  open  fire.  Babington  sat  silent,  haunted  by 
a  pkture  of  that  tragic  and  lonely  death;  the  cold 

330 


FORTUNE'S    DARLING  331 

starlight  beyond  the  dim  squares  of  the  open  win- 
dows, the  slow  coming  of  the  November  dawn,  the 
gruesome  discovery  of  the  servant  in  the  morning. 
It  filled  him  with  peculiar  repulsion  and  horror  to 
remember  his  last  scene  with  her.  He  lacked  the 
imagination  to  see  the  deeper  pathos  of  her  waiting 
for  his  step  on  the  stair,  her  longing  for  the  sound 
of  his  voice  once  more ;  or  he  saw  it  only  as  through 
a  glass  darkly,  and  then  turned  away  in  fear.  At 
last  he  started  up  and  shook  off  the  spell  that  had 
fallen  on  him. 

"I've  got  something  here,"  he  said,  "of  the  right 
sort.  A  drop  of  this  will  make  us  take  a  more 
cheerful  view  of  life.  After  all,  she  was  an  old 
lady,  and  what  more  natural  than  that  the  old 
should  die?" 

He  filled  two  glasses  and  they  drank  in  silence. 
The  professor  lighted  a  cigar  and  looked  about  the 
room  with  a  smile  of  recovered  spirits.  The  fire 
was  warm,  the  lamps  glowed  brightly,  the  whiskey 
and  cigars  were  good. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  commented.  "I  must  get- 
some  of  that  for  myself.  Somehow,  you  always 
manage  to  discover  the  best  brands  of  everything. 
It's  just  as  you  say;  you're  a  true  philosopher. 
There's  a  time  for  everything,  even  for  dying,  and 
the  ripe  fruit  must  fall.  Only,  in  this  case,  it 
seemed  more  like  a  withered  russet  apple  blown 
off  the  branch  by  a  cold  autumn  wind  and  rain.  It 
gave  me  the  creeps,  somehow."  He  puffed  his 
cigar  a  while  and  then  resumed :  "There  ought  to 
be  something  in  the  will  for  the  university.  She 


332  THE   TORCH 

had  no  heirs  that  I  know  of  except  that  scapegrace 
of  a  stepson  who  disappeared  some  years  ago,  and 
there  wasn't  a  single  relative  at  the  funeral." 

"Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  very  good,"  the  president 
remarked.  "She  stepped  in  and  took  charge  of 
everything." 

The  professor  nodded. 

"It's  like  her.  She  had  known  Mrs.  Tupper  for 
a  long  time.  She  has  a  practical  genius;  when 
there's  anything  to  be  done  she  does  it.  But  what 
do  you  think  of  our  chances?" 

The  president  had  thoughts  of  his  own  on  that 
subject  which  he  did  not  care  to  communicate  even 
to  his  only  friend. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "They  must  have 
opened  the  will  to-day,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  find 
out.  I'm  more  interested  just  now  in  the  outcome 
of  this  election."  He  looked  nervously  at  his 
watch.  "Here  it  is  past  eight  o'clock,  and  I  don't 
get  any  definite  news  yet.  It  has  been  dribbling  in 
for  two  hours,  now  this  way,  now  that." 

The  telephone  bell  rang  sharply  and  he  stepped 
into  the  hall,  leaving  the  door  open.  Fyffe  lis- 
tened intently  to  the  president's  words  and  endeav- 
ored to  guess  the  character  of  the  news  from  the 
capital.  Presently  Babington  came  back  into  the 
room  and  poured  out  another  drink. 

"Confound  him,"  he  said  irritably.  "The  report 
was  bad.  I  fancy  the  fellow  has  been  trying  to  let 
me  down  easy.  Help  yourself." 

Fyffe  accepted  the  invitation  and  looked  up  with 
his  grotesque  but  infectious  smile: 


FORTUNE'S   DARLING  333 

"Thou  hast  called  me  thy  friend  in  thy  moments  of 

bliss, 
And  thy  friend  I  will  be  through  the  horrors  of 

this." 

Babington  laughed  at  the  nimble  misquotation. 
He  always  found  Fyffe  a  refuge.  The  professor 
knew  that  the  time  to  hold  out  false  hopes  had 
passed  and  suddenly  grew  serious. 

"Never  mind,"  he  said.  "Let  us  concede  the 
election;  I  don't  think  you  need  worry.  I'm  sure 
Mrs.  Tupper  will  leave  us  millions.  The  regents 
will  appreciate  what  you  have  done  for  the  uni- 
versity. You've  got  us  more  money  in  two  years 
than  all  the  other  presidents  we  ever  had.  You've 
brought  order  out  of  chaos  and  weeded  out  the  men 
who  made  the  trouble.  You've  got  new  men  of 
ability  and  breeding.  There's  Tupper  Hall,  the 
finest  building  on  the  campus,  and,  in  spite  of 
Everett  and  Lee,  this  year's  freshman  class  was 
larger  than  last  year's." 

Babington  caught  his  spirit  and  smiled  sig- 
nificantly. 

"We'll  see  what  can  be  done  with  Plow's  new 
regents." 

The  professor  nodded  knowingly.  He  poured 
a  little  ginger  ale  into  his  whiskey  and  sipped  the 
mixture  with  appreciation. 

"If  Mrs.  Tupper  has  remembered  us,  as  I  know 
she  has,  you  can  prove  to  them  that  their  best  in- 
terests lie  in  siding  with  you ;  I  don't  care  who  they 
are."  Fyffe's  words  carried  conviction. 


334  THE   TORCH 

The   president   became  pompous   and   confident. 

"I  hope  the  blacksmith  is  elected,"  he  declared. 
"It  will  be  all  the  more  interesting."  His  jaw  was 
squared,  and  there  was  an  ugly  glint  in  his  eyes.  "I 
think  we  can  show  him  something  about  politics  he 
doesn't  know." 

"He'll  tie  himself  up  in  a  tangle  of  blunders  be- 
fore he's  in  office  a  month,"  said  Fyffe.  "His  sooty 
constituents  will  demand  impossibilities.  You  can 
stave  off  the  action  of  the  regents  until  his  influ- 
ence is  on  the  wane,  and  then  everything  will  come 
your  way.  He'll  soon  have  the  whole  heterogene- 
ous rabble  of  his  followers  howling  for  his  blood, 
and  after  two  years  out  he  goes."  He  grinned 
sardonically  and  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  as 
if  he  were  consigning  Plow  to  the  flames  by  the 
action. 

"It  takes  something  better  than  a  charlatan," 
the  president  observed,  "to  keep  the  support  of  the 
people.  They'll  get  tired  of  listening  to  the  wind 
of  his  bellows."  The  large  vein  in  Fyffe's  fore- 
head pulsed  with  amusement  and  he  took  the  lib- 
erty of  filling  both  the  glasses.  "Your  health,  Mr. 
Babington.  It's  good  stuff,  and  deserves  encour- 
agement." 

Babington  bit  off  the  end  of  a  new  cigar  and 
lighted  it. 

"I  used  that  whiskey  once  in  a  religious  dis- 
cussion. You  knew  of  old  Doctor  Hyde — hell  fire 
and  all  that  sort  .of  thing,  quite  logical  from  A  to 
Z.  About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  made  hjm 


FORTUNE'S    DARLING  335 

confess  that  his  position  was  purely  professional. 
He  went  to  bed  a  Universalist." 

"And  woke  up  a  worse  Calvinist  than  ever,  I'll 
be  bound,"  Fyffe  retorted. 

There  was  a  moist  twinkle  in  the  president's 
eyes. 

"Probably,  for  his  next  Sunday's  sermon  was 
lurid,  but  he  saw  Beulah  Land  for  once  in  his 
life.  Hello,  there's  the  bell  again." 

Fyffe  refilled  the  glasses  when  the  president  left 
the  room. 

"What's  that?"  Babington  cried.  "You're  sure? 
By  how  much?" 

There  was  a  short  silence.     , 

"From  ten  to  fifteen  thousand  ?     Thank  you." 

Fyffe  knew  that  he  was  asking  Plow's  plurality, 
but  he  was  past  caring.  Fifteen  thousand  or  fifty, 
it  was  all  one  to  him.  But  Babington  was  talking 
again. 

"Yes,  you  might  quote  me  as  saying  that  the  re- 
sult is  no  surprise  to  me.  Mr.  Plow  made  a  splen- 
did fight  and  deserved  to  win.  What's  that?  No, 
I  have  nothing  to  say  upon  the  political  aspect  of  the 
election.  I  take  no  part  in  politics.  Of  course,  I 
am  gratified  that  a  former  professor  of  the  univer- 
sity has  been  so  honored  by  the  people  of  the  state. 
Good  night." 

He  hung  up  the  ear-drum,  cutting  the  colloquy 
short,  and  came  back  into  the  study  with  a  black 
look  on  his  face.  He  seized  his  glass  recklessly  and 
drained  it  to  the  bottom.  The  draft  was  strong, 


336  THE   TORCH 

and  he  shivered  and  spluttered  as  he  poured  out  a 
drink  of  water. 

"There's  one  thing,"  he  remarked.  "During 
this  whole  campaign  I  haven't  said  a  word.  I've 
let  Plow  do  all  the  talking.  He  thinks  he's  got  me 
now,  but  that  remains  to  be  seen." 

About  eleven  o'clock  they  heard  a  confusion  of 
cries,  cheers  and  laughter  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
Babington  rose  unsteadily  to  his  feet. 

"It's  the  students,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  make 
them  a  speech.  I'll  show  them  I  don't  care." 

Fyffe  seized  his  arm  in  protest  and  endeavored 
to  drag  him  back  to  his  chair. 

"Don't  do  it,"  he  entreated.  "It's  better  to  let 
them  alone.  That's  a  crowd  of  Plow's  sympa- 
thizers. They've  been  over  to  the  capital  watching 
the  returns.  They're  not  your  friends." 

The  president  wrenched  himself  free  and  backed 
up  against  the  wall. 

"Mr.  Fyffe,"  he  said  with  solemnity,  "you  take 
great  liberties.  I  know  what  I'm  about." 

"Mr.  Babington,"  the  professor  retorted,  "you 
must  pardon  me  for  suggesting  that  you're  not 
yourself.  I'm  not  myself.  We've  had  a  little  to 
drink,  and  the  room  is  warm.  I  wouldn't  go  out 
if  I  were  you." 

"You  wouldn't,  Mr.  Fyffe?"  Babington's  eyes 
glowed  redly.  "But  you  and  I  are  two  very  dif- 
ferent persons.  Thank  you.  I'm  not  myself; 
you're  very  kind  to  remind  me." 

He  swayed  toward  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 


FORTUNE'S    DARLING  337 

Derisive  shouts  from  the  front  yard  came  echoing 
through  the  hall:  "Speech!  Speech!" 

"I'll  give  them  a  speech,"  Babington  growled. 
But  Fyffe  had  him  by  the  arm  once  more.  He 
whirled  about  and  swung  himself  loose. 

"Mr.  Fyffe,"  he  said  savagely,  "you've  insulted 
me  once  too  often.  Your  connection  with  the  uni- 
versity is  at  an  end,  sir." 

He  turned  and  made  his  way  down  the  hall,  pur- 
sued by  his  faithful  satellite.  The  professor,  more 
accustomed  to  alcohol  than  the  other,  realized  the 
situation  perfectly.  He  had  no  fear  of  losing  his 
position,  and  was  bent  on  saving  the  president's 
honor.  Babington  seized  the  baluster  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  and  went  smoothly  down,  in  spite  of  yield- 
ing knees.  Fyffe  followed  closely,  frantic  with 
anxiety. 

"You'll  thank  me  to-morrow.  Only  stop  before 
it's  too  late !"  he  cried. 

The  president,  fumbling  with  the  chain  of  the 
door,  paid  no  heed.  The  crowd  without  saw  his 
shadow  on  the  thick  glass  and  sent  up  a  mighty 
shout.  The  professor  seized  the  president's  hand 
in  one  last  effort,  and  poured  forth  unavailing  pro- 
tests. Babington  shouldered  him  aside  with  un- 
conscious strength,  and  sent  him  sprawling  on  the 
floor.  Then  the  door  swung  wide,  and  he  stood  ex- 
posed to  view. 

The  shouts  and  laughter  that  greeted  his  ears 
were  deafening.  He  did  not  know  that  the  little 
professor  was  picking  himself  up  from  the  floor 


338  THE   TORCH 

behind  him,  and  the  noise  filtered  through  his  be- 
fogged brain  as  a  cry  of  welcome.  He  felt  an  im- 
pulse to  do  something  jovial  and  friendly.  He 
would  be  a  good  fellow,  as  at  the  football  game; 
he  would  be  humorous  and  show  them  that  he  took 
everything  in  good  part.  He  tried  to  swing  his 
hat,  forgetting  that  his  head  was  bare,  and  gave 
an  answering  cheer.  All  this  in  the  first  moment. 
In  the  next  Fyffe  had  risen  to  his  feet.  The  stu- 
dents saw  the  figure  of  Miss  Babington,  clad  in  a 
bathrobe,  come  hurrying  from  the  back  of  the  hall. 
The  two  seized  the  president  and  forced  him  back. 
The  door  was  slammed  shut,  and  the  shadows  dis- 
appeared from  the  glass. 

A  hush  fell  on  the  rabble  outside.  They  were 
composed,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  president's  ene- 
mies, and  had  come  in  a  spirit  of  mischief  to  shout 
before  his  door,  safe  in  the  protection  of  the  dark- 
ness. Now  they  slunk  away,  abashed.  Some  said 
that  Fyffe  was  drunk,  others  that  he  had  fallen  by 
accident.  Almost  no  one  suspected  the  truth  about 
the  president.  The  whole  incident  had  taken  but 
a  few  moments.  Their  own  noise  had  drowned 
Babington's  cheer,  and  he  had  steadied  himself  with 
his  left  hand  against  the  jamb  of  the  door.  It  was 
the  ludicrous  figure  of  the  president's  sister  that 
brought  them  to  their  senses.  There  was  none  who 
did  not  like  that  simple  and  kindly  spinster,  and 
they  respected  her  interference  in  her  brother's  be- 
half.. 

Babington  was  sitting  on  the  lowest  step  of  the 
stair,  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  his  sister  knelt 


FORTUNE'S    DARLING  339 

beside  him.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  until  the  stu- 
dents had  disappeared ;  then  the  professor  took  his 
hat  and  coat  from  the  rack  and  slipped  out  with  a 
brief  good  night.  Neither  of  them  appeared  to 
notice  his  departure. 

"Oh,  Henry,"  she  cried,  "how  could  you?" 

He  raised  his  bloodshot  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
remorsefully. 

"The  room  was  close,"  he  said.  "It  went  to  my 
head  for  a  few  minutes.  I'll  know  better  next 
time." 

She  ignored  the  explanation,  and  continued, 
weeping : 

"I've  been  watching  you  for  a  long  time,  Henry, 
and  I  knew  that  man  was  having  a  bad  influence 
on  you.  He  has  been  your  tempter  from  the  first. 
You  never  used  to  drink." 

"And  never  will  again,"  he  declared,  rising.  A 
sudden  irritation  swept  over  him.  "Let  me  alone, 
Carrie!"  he  burst  out.  "I  know  what  you  would 
say,  but  I  won't  listen.  I  won't  have  it.  I've  got 
enough  to  worry  me  without  your  spying  and  lec- 
turing and  making  a  tragedy  out  of  an  accident." 
He  took  hold  of  the  baluster  and  began  to  ascend 
the  stairs. 

"Won't  you  let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  coffee?" 
she  suggested  meekly.  He  glared  down  on  her 
in  a  fury. 

"No;  mind  your  own  business  and  go  to  bed. 
What  do  I  want  of  a  cup  of  coffee  ?" 

He  went  back  to  his  own  study,  feeling  like  one 
of  the  damned.  Shame,  fear,  humiliation,  anger, 


340  THE    TORCH 

buffeted  him  this  way  and  that.  He  put  away  the 
bottles  and  glasses  and  threw  the  cigar  butts  into 
the  fire.  Then  he  opened  the  window  wide  and 
leaned  out  into  the  cool  night  air,  his  head  throb- 
bing. The  odor  of  whiskey  and  tobacco  had  become 
intolerable  to  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  never 
touch  them  again. 

Later,  he  sat  by  the  fire  in  his  easy  chair  and 
tried  to  take  a  reckoning  of  his  position.  He  had 
a  confused  memory  of  having  spoken  to  Fyffe  of 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  and  Mrs.  Tupper,  and  could  not  re- 
call just  where  he  had  drawn  the  line  of  confidence. 
The  conversation  with  a  reporter  at  the  telephone 
returned  to  haunt  him.  At  what  stage  of  the  eve- 
ning was  it,  and  what  had  he  said  ?  He  would  know 
only  when  he  should  see  the  paper  in  the  morning. 
During  that  long  night  he  slept  fitfully  in  his  chair, 
and  awoke  at  last  with  an  aching  head.  The  fire 
had  gone  out  in  the  grate,  but  one  of  the  lamps  still 
burned  smokily,  impregnating  the  room  and  ming- 
ling its  yellow  light  oddly  with  the  grayness  of  the 
dawn. 

For  some  time  he  lay  in  a  semi-conscious  con- 
dition wondering  whether  he  had  spent  the  night 
in  the  seat  of  a  railroad  train.  He  had  felt  so  in 
his  early  days,  before  he  could  afford  the  luxury  of 
a  berth  in  a  sleeper,  when  the  dawn  found  him 
stiff  and  sore,  looking  with  smarting  eyes  at  the 
hurrying  landscape.  His  hopes  and  fears  came 
back  upon  him  with  a  rush,  and  he  sprang  to  his 
feet.  The  motion  sent  a  wave  of  pain  to  the  top  of 
his  head,  and  caused  him  to  step  softly.  He  put 


FORTUNE'S    DARLING  341 

out  the  lamp  and  looked  at  his  watch.  The  paper 
must  be  even  now  on  the  porch.  He  gazed  over  the 
campus,  steaming  in  the  melancholy  autumn  rain, 
and  feared  to  go  down  to  learn  his  fate. 

When  at  last  he  summoned  courage  to  go  down- 
stairs and  open  the  door  he  saw  The  Times  flapping 
in  the  breeze  at  his  feet.  He  picked  it  up  and  ran 
over  the  headlines  in  a  feverish  haste.  There  was 
Plow's  picture,  the  picture  of  the  next  governor, 
and  there  was  the  account  of  his  victory.  All  this 
he  already  knew.  He  sought  for  his  own  words 
and  found  them.  They  expressed  just  what  he 
wished,  and  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Best  of 
all,  there  was  no  reference  to  the  demonstration  at 
his  door  the  previous  night.  He  began  to  feel  that 
the  fates  were  still  with  him,  as  they  had  always 
been,  and  turned  to  the  inside  pages  with  a  hope 
that  was  almost  expectation.  Suddenly  it  flashed 
upon  his  eyes: 

MRS.  TUPPER'S  WILL. 
President  Babington  Gets  the  Bulk  of  the  Widow's 

Millions. 

A  Few  Small  Bequests  to  Distant  Relatives. 
Nothing  for  the  State   University. 

As  he  read  the  last  line  his  tense  emotion  gave 
way  to  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  he  laughed 
aloud.  The  university  had  nothing.  It  was  all 
his  to  do  with  as  he  would.  He  could  bribe  enough 
regents  for  his  purposes,  no  matter  whom  Plow 
might  appoint.  And  there  was  no  embarrassing 


342  THE   TORCH 

reference  in  the  will  to  himself,  as  Mrs.  Tupper's 
fiance.  It  was  dated  some  time  before  his  last  in- 
terview with  her,  and  Mrs.  Van  Sant  would  never 
know  his  secret.  Surely  his  millions  were  worth 
more  than  Plow's  precarious  popularity,  his  two 
short  years  of  office.  She  would  not  refuse  him 
now.  It  was  this  thought  that  filled  his  cup  of 
joy  and  triumph  to  overflowing.  He  laughed 
again,  and  turning  to  the  front  page  of  the  paper 
he  drove  his  fist  straight  through  his  enemy's  face  so 
that  it  came  out  on  the  other  side. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A   FRANK    UNDERSTANDING 

The  president  sat  in  his  study  after  breakfast 
and  smoked  a  cigar  without  a  thought  of  his  last 
night's  resolve.  A  hot  bath,  a  change  of  raiment, 
two  cups  of  strong  coffee,  and,  above  all,  joy  had 
put  his  headache  to  flight.  He  opened  his  morning 
mail  and  found  the  lawyer's  formal  notification  of 
his  good  fortune.  There  was  also  a  letter  of  con- 
gratulation from  Fyffe,  brought  by  a  special  mes- 
senger. Babington  knew  that  he  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  the  professor,  no  matter  what  he  might 
have  said.  Fyffe  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to 
remember  confidences  spoken  over  the  cups,  and 
besides  it  was  to  his  advantage  to  keep  silent.  A 
glorious  day  was  before  him ;  many  things  claimed 
his  attention,  but  first  he  would  sit  alone  a  while 
and  try  to  realize  the  extent  of  his  triumph.  He 
felt  that  he  was  Fortune's  darling,  one  born  to 
lucky  chances  and  destined  to  step  on  the  neck  of 
his  enemies.  He  -was  light-headed  and  giddy. 
His  whole  being  burned  with  exultation,  but  his 
hands  were  cold  and  the  nerves  in  his  wrists  quiv- 
ered. The  fire  had  been  rekindled,  and  he  drew  up 
his  chair  to  the  blaze. 

343 


344  THE   TORCH 

He  had  not  told  his  sister  the  news  as  yet,  partly 
because  he  still  resented  her  reproaches  of  the  pre- 
vious night,  and  partly  from  an  intuition  that  she 
would  be  puzzled,  even  dismayed,  by  the  unexpected 
windfall.  She  never  read  the  paper  until  ten 
o'clock,  at  which  time  the  wheels  of  the  domestic 
machinery  were  running  smoothly  and  she  could 
allow  herself  a  short  respite.  Even  then  she  often 
turned  by  preference  to  the  woman's  weekly  to 
which  she  subscribed.  She  enjoyed  the  stories  and 
cooking  recipes  of  that  popular  periodical,  and  re- 
garded The  Times  as  an  enemy  lying  in  wait  for  her 
with  some  wicked  criticism  of  her  brother. 

Babington's  day-dream  was  interrupted  by  a  light 
rap  at  the  door,  and  his  sister  entered,  breathless 
with  excitement. 

"Henry,"  she  gasped,  "who  do  you  suppose 
wants  to  see  you?" 

"Who?"  he  demanded. 

"Plow !" 

The  president  gave  a  start,  and  his  face  paled. 
What  could  the  man  want?  It  was  almost  beyond 
belief.  He  had  expected  a  protracted  struggle,  and 
felt  that  he  was  supplied  with  all  the  munitions  of 
war,  but  the  immediate  prospect  of  a  meeting  face 
to  face  gave  him  a  shock  of  something  like  fear. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  excuse  himself,  but  his  sec- 
ond was  one  of  eagerness  for  the  interview.  He 
reflected  that  Plow  had  come  to  him,  as  an  inferior 
comes  to  see  a  superior.  Doubtless  he  realized 
that  his  enemy's  good  fortune  was  greater  than  his 


A   FRANK   UNDERSTANDING       345 

own,  and  had  come  to  make  peace.  After  all,  he 
was  the  governor-elect  and  a  man  of  importance. 
Babington  was  not  unwilling  to  compromise.  He 
resolved  to  meet  him  half-way  and  to  assume  that 
their  relationship  was  one  of  cordial  cooperation. 
This  was  probably  what  Plow  desired.  It  was  to 
their  mutual  interest  to  bury  the  hatchet.  All 
things  considered,  Babington  felt  that  the  advan- 
tages of  the  situation  were  on  his  side. 

"I'll  see  him  in  this  room,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Won't  you  go  down,  Henry?"  she  suggested. 

He  looked  at  her  with  contempt.  Evidently  she 
did  not  appreciate  their  relative  positions. 

"No,"  he  said  coldly.  "Send  him  up  here.  And, 
Carrie,  mind  you  let  the  maid  show  him  the  way.  I 
suppose  you  opened  the  door  yourself.  I  wish  you 
could  learn  not  to  perform  the  duties  of  your  own 
servants." 

Miss  Babington  flushed  with  mortification  and 
resentment,  but  the  habit  of  obedience  was  strong 
and  she  went  to  do  his  bidding. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  governor-elect  that  he 
should  come  to  see  Babington  the  morning  after  his 
election,  without  stopping  to  weigh  the  relative  offi- 
cial importance  of  the  president  of  the  state  univer- 
sity and  himself.  He  had  no  little  difficulty  in  reach- 
ing his  destination.  A  hundred  claimants  to  his  at- 
tention blocked  his  way.  On  the  campus  of  the  uni- 
versity his  old  colleagues  stopped  him  to  offer  their 
congratulations.  The  students  gathered  in  crowds 
and  cheered.  The  entrance  that  he  had  made  so 
unpretentiously  became  an  ovation,  a  triumphant  re- 


346  THE   TORCH 

turn  from  exile.  He  refused  to  respond  to  the  stu- 
dents' demand  for  a  speech,  but  continued  on  his 
way  with  a  smile  of  whimsical  appreciation  of  the 
turning  of  the  tables.  It  was  in  this  place  that  he 
had  dropped  from  sight  almost  unnoticed  in  the 
greater  interest  aroused  by  a  football  game.  Then 
a  hundred  students  had  stood  by  him;  now  he  was 
apparently  the  hero  of  the  university.  Within  a 
few  minutes  the  whole  campus  was  in  a  buzz  of  ex- 
cited speculation.  Plow  had  entered  the  president's 
house,  and  conjecture  ran  the  whole  gamut  from  a 
probable  duel  in  the  drawing-room  to  an  affecting 
reconciliation. 

When  Babington  heard  his  visitor's  step  in  the 
hall  he  arose  and  threw  open  the  door  with  a  smile 
of  welcome  and  an  outstretched  hand  of  congrat- 
ulation. But  Plow  was  holding  his  hat  in  one  hand 
and  his  umbrella  in  the  other.  He  did  not  seem  to 
observe  the  president's  intention,  but  stalked  into 
the  room  with  a  brief  good  morning,  and  took  a 
chair  by  the  fire.  Babington  was  somewhat  discon- 
certed by  the  awkwardness  of  the  meeting,  but  at- 
tributed it  to  his  visitor's  ill  breeding  and  sat  down, 
as  yet  undeceived. 

"Mr.  Plow,"  he  began  smoothly,  "allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  upon  your  election.  I  take  a  spe- 
cial pride,  as  president  of  the  university,  in  the  fact 
that  one  of  our  former  professors  has  won  the  high- 
est honor  in  the  gift  of  the  people  of  the  state." 

Even  as  he  was  speaking  his  habitual  quickness 
of  perception  made,  him  conscious  of  a  difference 
in  his  visitor.  He  was  no  longer  the  unworldly 


A   FRANK   UNDERSTANDING       347 

professor  or  the  eccentric  reformer.  The  great  ex- 
perience through  which  he  had  passed  had  left  its 
stamp  upon  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  dryly,  a  satirical  humor 
lighting  his  eyes.  "I  read  what  you  had  to  say 
about  the  election  in  this  morning's  paper."  He 
paused  a  moment,  collecting  his  thoughts,  and  then 
continued  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  situation 
rather  than  a  man.  "I  came  over  this  morning  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  know  as  soon  as  possible  just 
what  our  relationship  is.  I  don't  want  you  to  en- 
tertain any  false  ideas  of  my  intentions.  Possibly 
you  may  not  care  to  continue  in  your  present  posi- 
tion, now  that  you  are  independent,  and  it  may  be 
that  you  intend  to  resign  of  your  own  accord.  I 
hope  such  is  the  case,  for  it  will  save  unnecessary 
friction." 

The  president's  nerves,  already  sensitive  from 
the  experiences  of  the  night  and  morning,  responded 
like  electric  wires  to  a  sudden  current  of  emotion. 
The  cool  assumption  of  the  man  he  hated  and  de- 
spised was  maddening.  He  had  expected  a  peti- 
tioner and  encountered  a  dictator.  The  habit  of  ar- 
rogance had  become  too  deeply  fixed  to  be  sloughed 
in  a  moment,  and  impulse  carried  him  away  before 
policy  could  find  a  place  in  his  mind.  The  old  irre- 
sistible personal  antagonism  flamed  up  anew,  and 
he  fairly  snapped  out  his  retort. 

"I  have  no  intention  of  resigning,  Mr.  Plow." 
His  expression  asked  unmistakably,  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it?"  and  the  question  was  an- 
swered as  if  it  had  been  articulate. 


348  THE    TORCH 

"I  think  it  would  be  the  wiser  course;  it  would 
save  you  the  humiliation  of  being  asked  to  go." 

The  eyes  of  the  governor-elect  were  glowing  like 
two  bright  coals.  The  president  had  broken  the 
pretense  of  impersonal  dealing  as  if  it  were  a  win- 
dow of  colored  glass  between  them,  and  each  looked 
at  the  face  of  his  enemy  undisguised. 

"I  shall  not  be  asked  to  go,  and  I  will  not  go," 
Babington  sneered. 

"Yes,  you  will,"  Plow  retorted.  "I  might  as  well 
be  perfectly  frank  with  you.  It's  not  my  way  to 
work  in  the  dark.  Just  as  soon  as  I  take  my  seat 
and  appoint  my  regents  they  will  ask  for  your  resig- 
nation. I  have  them  pledged  to  it,  and  they  will 
stand  by  their  word.  It  will  be  my  business,  as 
president  of  the  board  of  regents,  to  look  out  for  the 
best  interests  of  the  university,  and  those  interests 
are  not  promoted  by  hypocrisy  and  money-worship. 
You've  had  your  innings  long  enough,  and  the  time 
has  come  for  you  to  make  way  for  a  better  man." 

"Everett,  for  instance  ?"  There  was  an  indescrib- 
able sting  in  the  president's  quizzical  manner,  and 
Plow  responded  as  to  the  cut  of  a  lash. 

"It  makes  no  difference  who  the  man  is;  it's 
enough  that  there  is  one.  I  knew  that  you  knew  my 
moves,  and  you  knew  that  I  knew  yours.  Then 
what  was  the  use  of  that  pretense  and  congratula- 
tion ?  Did  you  think  that  I  was  going  to  congratu- 
late you  in  turn  upon  your  millions,  and  stand  hand 
in  glove  with  you,  now  that  you  are  rich?" 

He  spoke  in  hot  scorn,  his  hand  grasping  the  arm 
of  his  chair  until  his  knuckles  shone  white,  but  now 


A   FRANK   UNDERSTANDING       349 

he  made  a  great  effort  and  continued  more  calmly. 
"I  am  trying  to  keep  my  own  personal  feelings  out  of 
this,  but  it's  against  human  nature.  Yet  I  hope  I 
could  overlook  everything  else  if  you  really  had  a 
good  influence  on  the  students  of  the  university,  but 
you  haven't.  They  are  easily  fooled  by  position  and 
plausible  speeches.  You've  taught  them  to  despise 
their  teachers;  you've  given  them  practical  lessons 
in  the  art  of  humbug.  It's  for  their  sake  that  I'm 
determined  you  shall  go.  There  are  some  things 
your  money  can't  buy.  You  can't  buy  me,  and  you 
can't  buy  those  regents,  though  I  know  well  enough 
that's  what  you're  planning." 

"Mr.  Plow,"  Babington  cried,  rising,  his  face 
white  with  passion,  "this  is  an  insult  I  won't  en- 
dure. It  comes  with  a  pretty  poor  grace  from  a  man 
who  has  got  himself  elected  governor  of  the  state 
by  just  exactly  the  tricks  he  ascribes  to  me." 

Plow  sprang  to  his  feet  in  turn  and  advanced  to 
within  a  foot  of  his  enemy. 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  he  said  distinctly,  "you 
know  you  don't.  You  know  I  mean  well  by  the 
people.  I  may  make  mistakes  at  times,  but  I'm  no 
trickster,  and  you  know  it.  If  I  really  insulted  you, 
why  didn't  you  knock  me  down?  It  was  because 
you  knew  I  spoke  the  truth;  so  you  gave  me  a  lie 
instead  of  a  blow." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Babington's  course  of  life 
had  fostered  physical  courage.  As  a  college  boy, 
and  catcher  of  the  baseball  nine,  he  would  have 
obeyed  the  promptings  of  the  primitive  man,  but 
now  it  was  impossible.  It  was  Plow  that  stood  in 


350  THE   TORCH 

all  the  glory  of  his  healthy  and  mature  manhood, 
ready  and  unafraid.  The  fury  of  the  other  only  un- 
nerved him.  His  heart  beat  at  his  ribs  as  if  it  would 
burst,  and  his  hands  were  helpless.  At  that  crucial 
moment  he  could  only  sneer. 

''I'm  not  a  barbarian,  nor  a  blacksmith." 

Plow's  hands  clenched,  as  in  a  spasm,  but  his 
voice  was  still  curiously  low. 

"Xo,  you're  not ;  you've  spoken  the  truth  for  once. 
You're  not  a  blacksmith;  you're  only  a  hypocrite 
and  a  sycophant.  That's  the  trade  by  which  you 
won  your  money,  the  money  with  which  you  thought 
you  could  buy  me.  You  got  money  from  one 
woman  to  buy  the  love  of  another,  but  you'll  find 
you  can't  do  that  either." 

Babington  burst  into  a  taunting  laugh. 

"So  that's  what  your  championship  of  virtue 
amounts  to,  is  it?  I  begin  to  see  what  lies  behind 
all  this  talk  of  protecting  the  students  from  my  bad 
influence.  Of  course,  your  successful  rival  in  love 
must  be  a  villain.  I  see  now  why  you  had  the  pre- 
sumption to  walk  into  a  lady's  house  unannounced 
and  interrupt  my  visit  with  my  fiancee" 

"No !"  Plow's  cry  was  one  of  agony,  and  seemed 
to  rend  him.  For  a  moment  he  stood  as  one 
stricken.  Then  a  great  light  blazed  in  his  eyes. 
His  hand  shot  out  and  gripped  his  tormentor  by  the 
throat.  The  impetus  of  the  attack  bore  the  presi- 
dent against  the  wall.  He  would  have  cried  out,  but 
for  the  relentless  fingers  of  his  enemy. 

"You  lie,"  Plow  panted.  "It  must  be  a  lie.  It's 
because  you  say  she's  yotir  fiancee  that  I  know  it 


A   FRANK    UNDERSTANDING       351 

can't  be  true.  Keep  still,  and  I  won't  choke  you, 
but  if  you  move  or  try  to  speak  I  can't  answer  for 
myself.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  I  didn't 
come  here  to  tell,  but  we  had  better  understand  each 
other  once  for  all.  That  night  on  the  road,  when 
you  almost  trampled  me  down  under  your  horse's 
feet,  do  you  know  why  I  never  answered  you  a 
word?  It  was  because  I  knew  that  if  I  once  began 
to  tell  you  what  I  thought  of  you  I  should  end  by 
dragging  you  from  your  horse.  But  you  thought  I 
was  afraid,  and  you  laughed  as  you  rode  away. 
There,  I'll  not  strike  you.  You've  nothing  to  fear 
from  me  but  the  truth,  and  now  that  you've  heard  it 
I'm  satisfied." 

"But  I'm  not,"  Babington  gasped.  "You'll  hear 
from  me  later,  in  the  courts." 

Plow  laughed. 

"You'll  think  better  of  it.  I  guess  you  won't 
take  it  into  the  courts.  But  I'm  tired  bandying 
words."  He  reached  for  his  hat  and  umbrella. 
Babington  stood  leaning  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
like  one  deadly  sick.  The  governor-elect  gave  him 
a  last  contemptuous  look.  A  picture  flashed  into 
his  mind — an  insolent  man  on  horseback — and  he 
laughed  again.  Then  he  strode  out  of  the  room 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

THE   PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST 

When  Babington  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his 
personal  humiliation  at  Plow's  hands  his  first  sen- 
sation was  one  of  concern  for  his  physical  condition. 
As  he  poured  out  a  liberal  draft  of  whiskey  he  re- 
solved that  it  should  be  his  last  for  a  long  time 
to  come.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  was 
aroused  within  him.  He  knew  that  his  muscles 
were  soft,  his  nerves  unsteady,  and  his  breathing 
quick.  A  feeling  of  self-pity  crept  over  him  as  he 
recalled  his  former  prowess  on  the  athletic  field. 
Like  Milo  of  Crotona  in  the  days  of  his  decline,  he 
could  almost  have  wept  at  the  discovery  that  his 
arms  were  dead.  But,  unlike  the  Greek  athlete,  he 
was  not  without  hope.  It  was  high  living,  not  age, 
that  had  weakened  him.  He  would  go  into  train- 
ing once  more.  He  experienced  a  twinge  of  jeal- 
ousy to  think  of  his  enemy's  splendid  condition. 
And  once  the  odds  had  been  the  other  way. 

Plow's  last  words  were  true.  Babington  did  think 
better  of  bringing  the  affair  into  court.  There  were 
no  witnesses  to  the  scene,  and  one  man's  word  was 
as  good  as  another's.  He  would  tell  no  one.  If  his 
sister  had  heard  the  altercation  she  would  have  run 

352 


THE    PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST     353 

to  the  rescue,  but  she  was  busy  with  her  household 
cares  at  that  hour,  and  evidently  no  sotmd  from  the 
study  had  penetrated  through  the  heavy  doors  and 
iron-ribbed  floors  of  the  large  house. 

The  situation  was  not  materially  changed  by  the 
visit.  Their  mutual  hatred  was  merely  intensified. 
Babington  felt  that  he  had  given  as  much  as  he  re- 
ceived. He  had  stood  up  and  told  the  fellow  to  his 
face  that  he  was  a  villain ;  and  he  felt  that  his  lie  in 
regard  to  Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  struck  home.  He 
laughed  with  savage  triumph  to  remember  that  a 
great  part  of  Plow's  wrath  was  the  agony  of  a  dis- 
appointed man. 

He  went  into  his  dressing-room  and  changed  his 
rumpled  collar  before  the  mirror.  The  faint  marks 
of  Plow's  ringers  aroused  his  fury  anew,  and  he  re- 
solved to  lay  him  by  the  heels  yet,  even  if  it  cost  him 
half  his  fortune.  His  fortune !  -He  smiled  to  think 
how  soon  he  had  become  accustomed  to  the  sense  of 
possession,  and  then  realized  that  his  good  fortune 
was  not  so  unexpected,  after  all.  He  had  reckoned 
upon  possession  for  some  days ;  but  possession  with 
personal  liberty  was  the  unexpected  thing.  He  had 
waked  forever  from  the  nightmare  thought  of  a 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Tupper.  He  went  downstairs, 
his  good  spirits  restored,  and  ran  into  his  sister's 
outstretched  arms. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Henry?"  she  cried  re- 
proachfully. "If  it  hadn't  been  for  Mrs.  Bork  I 
might  not  have  learned  it  this  morning." 

"What  an  advantage  to  have  a  dressmaker  who 
reads  the  papers  before  she  begins  her  daily  labors," 


354  THE   TORCH 

he  answered.  "This  will  teach  you  to  keep  up  with 
the  times.  The  day  should  always  begin  with  the 
newspaper."  He  extricated  himself  from  her  em- 
brace and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  she  entreated.  "Stay  and  talk 
with  me  a  while.  What  will  you  do  with  so  much 
money?"  He  saw  that  she  was  weighed  down  by  a 
sense  of  responsibility. 

"Already  troubled  by  conscientious  scruples?"  he 
queried  good  naturedly.  "I'll  do  much  as  I'm  doing 
now,  I  fancy,  only  more  so.  But  I  haven't  got  it  yet. 
There  will  be  the  usual  legal  delay,  though  I  can 
raise  what  I  want  on  my  expectations." 

"Mrs.  Bork  told  me  such  an  interesting  thing," 
she  interposed,  as  she  saw  his  hand  on  the  door.  He 
turned  and  waited  impatiently.  "She  said  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  was  related  to  the  Tuppers — " 

"What !"  he  cried. 

— "And  was  entitled  to  some  of  the  money.  Mrs. 
Bork  stopped  at  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  this  morning  on 
her  way  here,  to  make  an  engagement,  and  they 
talked  about  it.  She  asked  Mrs.  Van  Sant  whether 
she  were  going  to  put  in  a  claim." 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  he  demanded. 

"She  only  laughed  and  said  you  could  have  her 
share.  Wasn't  that  lovely  of  her  ?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  the  insinuating  timid- 
ity of  a  woman  that  has  learned  caution  by  repeated 
snubs.  Her  brother  would  never  gratify  her  love  of 
romance  by  confessing  a  partiality  for  any  particu- 
lar woman,  and  she  had  often  thrown  out  hints  in 
vain  concerning  Mrs.  Van  Sant.  Nor  was  her  inter- 


THE    PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST    355 

est  altogether  romantic.  The  advent  of  a  sister-in- 
law  would  probably  mean  the  end  of  her  own  reign 
in  the  house,  and  for  years  she  had  schooled  her  un- 
selfish soul  to  rejoice  for  her  brother's  sake  in  her 
own  inevitable  dethronement.  Fluttering  with 
complicated  emotions,  she  searched  his  face  for  a 
confirmation  of  her  hopes  and  fears. 

A  hundred  little  incidents  came  back  to  the  pres- 
ident's mind.  The  relationship  explained  much; 
Mrs.  Tupper's  antagonism,  which  he  had  attributed 
solely  to  jealousy,  their  knowledge  of  each  other's 
circumstances,  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  presence  at  the 
funeral.  He  felt  that  her  refusal  to  claim  her  share 
was  no  mere  jest  and  could  be  due  to  only  one  thing, 
her  love  for  him.  He  realized  that  his  long  proba- 
tion was  at  an  end,  and  his  pulses  leaped.  In  the 
face  of  his  sister's  scrutiny  he  strove  to  keep  the 
exultation  from  his  voice. 

"Lovely  of  her?"  he  echoed  quizzically.  "I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  she  didn't  mean  it.  Perhaps  she 
didn't  choose  to  take  her  dressmaker  into  her  confi- 
dence, the  way  some  women  do.  She  may  claim  her 
own  yet." 

His  heart  gave  the  lie  to  his  suspicious  answer, 
and  he  went  out  into  the  open  air  like  one  in  a 
dream.  He  felt  it  was  like  Mrs.  Van  Sant  to  act  as 
she  did,  and  not  unlike  her  to  speak  thus  frankly 
with  an  old  servant,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

As  if  to  confirm  the  resurgence  of  his  mood,  the 
sun  began  to  break  through  the  clouds  in  thin,  pale 
shafts  of  light.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  campus 
the  sky  was  almost  clear.  It  was  like  that  autumn 


356  THE   TORCH 

morning  the  day  after  his  inauguration,  more  than 
two  years  before.  There  was  the  same  stimulating 
suggestion  of  the  coming  winter,  the  same  sparkle 
of  rain-drops  on  the  beaten  leaves,  the  same  sound 
of  ringing  bells,  the  same  moving  picture  of  student 
life.  But  now  the  classic  pillars  of  Tupper  Hall 
looked  down  on  the  campus  where  no  hall  had 
been  before,  and  the  clang  of  the  workmen's  ham- 
mers came  like  music  to  his  ears  through  the  open 
windows. 

He  remembered  that  the  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  which  Mrs.  Tupper  had  first  given  to  the 
university  would  now  become  available  for  other 
buildings  or  new  professorships,  and  he  carried  his 
head  higher  at  the  thought.  He  was  conscious  of 
the  fact  that  his  good  fortune  invested  him  with  a 
new  interest  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  saw  him.  The 
delusion  that  none  could  know  of  the  old  woman's 
infatuation  for  him  was  an  additional  comfort.  The 
difference  in  their  ages  would  make  the  legacy  seem 
like  a  gift  to  an  adopted  son.  Even  had  he  known 
that  many  a  sharp  gossip  guessed  the  truth  he  would 
not  have  been  greatly  concerned.  Gossip  was  one 
thing,  proof  another,  and  the  power  of  money  was 
very  real. 

Before  he  reached  his  office  he  had  been  congrat- 
ulated more  than  once  by  passing  professors,  but 
Everett  spoke  to  him  a  few  moments  upon  a  ques- 
tion of  administration  and  went  on  without  men- 
tioning the  subject.  He  glared  after  the  professor 
with  a  sense  of  having  been  affronted  by  a  school- 


THE   PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST    357 

master.  Perhaps  the  man  thought  he  would  be  the 
next  president  of  the  university,  he  reflected. 

All  day  long,  as  he  sat  in  his  office  and  performed 
his  accustomed  duties,  he  was  conscious  of  a  curi- 
ous duality.  One  part  of  him  dictated  letters,  inter- 
viewed professors,  attended  to  innumerable  details 
of  the  university  routine;  the  other  part  was  de- 
tached, expectant,  exalted.  He  seemed  to  be  doing 
the  work  of  some  one  else,  while  his  own  hopes  and 
interests  lay  beyond  those  walls.  He  pictured  Mrs. 
Van  Sant  the  mistress  of  his  house,  and  glowed  with 
pride  to  imagine  the  figure  she  would  make  as  the 
wife  of  the  president  of  the  university.  In  the 
summer  they  would  go  east  together;  everywhere 
she  would  win  him  friends  and  favor  by  her  charm 
and  tact. 

These  were  the  hopes  and  calculations  of  the 
president's  nimble  mind  when  the  pauses  between 
his  tasks  gave  time  for  their  upbuilding,  and  their 
selfishness  was  touched  by  ideality.  His  culti- 
vated senses  appreciated  her  quality  to  the  full,  and 
he  gave  her  all  the  love,  he  invested  her  with  all  the 
romance,  of  which  his  nature  was  capable.  It  was 
true  that  this  romance  would  have  been  impossible 
had  her  circumstances  been  less  easy,  her  environ- 
ment less  charming.  It  was  dependent  on  the 
very  furniture  and  pictures  of  her  house,  the  serv- 
ice of  her  table,  the  manners  of  her  servants,  the 
gowns  and  hats  she  wore,  the  paper  on  which  she 
wrote  him  an  occasional  note.  It  was  the  lack  of 
these  things  in  his  sister  that  vitiated  the  tone  of  his 
own  house,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts. 


358  THE   TORCH 

As  evening  came  on  he  began  to  experience  an 
emotion  akin  to  that  of  a  bridegroom  who  awaits 
the  coming  of  his  bride.  In  a  little  while  he  would 
be  surrounded  by  the  atmosphere  he  loved,  an  at- 
mosphere of  charm  and  delicacy  and  shaded  lights. 
He  would  hear  the  rustle  of  her  silken  skirt,  he 
would  see  the  flash  of  her  lovely  arms,  and  the  glory 
of  her  hair.  She  had  kept  him  waiting  long.  She 
had  made  him  suffer  for  his  great  mistake,  but  she 
had  educated  him  in  the  diplomacy  of  love.  She 
had  made  him  realize  the  value  of  her  favor,  and 
had  sweetened  the  cup  of  his  final  triumph  till  the 
very  prospect  of  the  draft  went  to  his  head  like  a 
rare  and  precious  wine. 

At  last  he  found  himself  in  her  presence  once 
more.  Anticipation  had  melted  into  reality  with 
the  strange  and  easy  magic  of  a  dream. 

"It  can't  be  that  I  have  just  come,"  he  said, 
glancing  about  the  familiar  room  and  back  to  her 
face  with  a  whimsical  smile.  "I  seem  to  have  been 
here  the  livelong  day,  with  you."  It  was  long  since 
he  had  ventured  upon  such  personal  grounds,  but 
now  the  step  was  easy  and  inevitable. 

"I  can  assure  you  that  you  haven't,"  she  retorted 
brightly.  "If  you  had  been  here  this  morning  I'm 
sure  that  Ellen  would  have  swept  you  into  her  dust- 
pan, and  as  for  myself,  I  spent  the  whole  day  in  the 
capital,  shopping.  It  must  have  been  a  dream." 

He  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  alight  with  the  finest 
emotion  of  his  life. 

"It  was  a  dream,"  he  said  softly.     She  started  at 


THE    PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST    359 

his  tone  and  manner,  but  he  possessed  himself  of  her 
hand  and  held  it  delicately,  warmly,  in  both  his  own. 

"Listen,"  he  commanded.  "I  must  tell  you  now 
what  I  have  been  telling  you  mentally  all  this  day. 
You  must  know  the  evolution  you  have  worked  in 
me;  you  must  know  my  gratitude  and  love,  even  if 
you  scorn  them.  I  never  cared  much  for  women ;  I 
never  even  fancied  myself  seriously  in  love  till  I  met 
you.  Then  I  thought  I  knew  what  love  was,  but  you 
knew  that  I  did  not.  Was  it  not  so  ?  You  knew  I 
was  not  worthy;  that  the  cares  and  ambitions  of 
mature  life  had  crowded  out  the  ideals  of  my  youth. 
You  found  an  old  poem  of  mine  and  used  it  as  a 
touchstone,  but  there  was  no  response.  There  was 
need  of  an  awakening,  of  a  baptism  of  fire,  before  I 
could  present  myself  to  you  with  a  shadow  of  a 
claim  to  your  regard.  How  little  I  understood  the 
meaning  of  that  incident  the  first  evening  I  sat  with 
you  in  this  room!  It  has  taken  two  long  years  to 
teach  me  the  lesson,  but  I  have  learned  it  now.  I 
have  come  to  see  that  I  dare  not  love  you  until  I 
learn  to  love  the  things  you  love.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

What  was  there  at  that  moment  in  her  eyes,  ten- 
der and  bright  with  emotion  as  they  were,  that  made 
the  distance  between  them  still  impassable?  He 
knew  that  he  had  touched  her  as  never  before,  that 
she  found  him  winning,  that  they  fascinated  each 
other  as  they  had  so  often  done,  but  now  with  an 
intensity  that  was  full  of  momentous  possibilities. 
She  should  have  the  full  confession  of  his  heart,  and 


360  THE   TORCH 

he  went  on  with  a  humility  that  was  now  his  dearest 
pride. 

"It  needed  only  one  thing  more  to  prove  my  un- 
worthiness  and  to  strengthen  my  hope  of  forgive- 
ness until  I  dared  to  speak.  Only  this  morning  I 
found  out,  by  the  merest  accident,  what  I  might 
have  guessed  long  before,  that  you  were  entitled  to 
a  share  of  the  fortune  that  has  fallen  so  unexpect- 
edly to  my  lot,  and  I  dared  to  divine  the  reason  you 
would  not  claim  it." 

He  was  about  to  continue,  to  ask  her  to  share 
it  with  him,  to  outline  all  the  glorious  future  of 
which  he  had  dreamed  so  fondly  that  day,  but  she 
withdrew  her  hand  and  stood  looking  at  him  with 
such  amazement  that  he  paused  in  confusion. 

"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

He  saw  that  she  was  puzzled  to  know  how  he  had 
learned  of  her  intention.  Somehow,  he  had  almost 
imagined  that  she  told  the  dressmaker  on  purpose, 
knowing  it  would  travel  to  him. 

"Mrs.  Bork  was  talking  with  my  sister — "  he  ex- 
plained. 

"Mrs.  Bork!" 

She  would  have  laughed,  but  her  sense  of  the  lu- 
dicrous was  overwhelmed  in  a  wave  of  sudden  an- 
ger, and  she  looked  at  him  with  eyes  grown 
strangely  cold.  She  would  not  tell  him  that  her 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Bork  was  a  joke,  that  her 
distant  relationship  to  the  first  Mrs.  Tupper  consti- 
tuted no  claim  to  part  of  the  property.  He  had  shat- 
tered the  harmony  between  them  forever  by  this  false 
note,  and  her  analysis  of  him.  was  pitiless.  Even  if 


THE    PROSPERITY    OF    A   JEST    361 

her  relationship  did  constitute  a  claim,  it  was  not 
for  him  to  divine  why  she  did  not  choose  to  press  it. 
She  thought  of  Mrs.  Tupper  and  all  the  sordid  pos- 
sibilities of  her  relationship  with  this  man  she  might 
have  loved.  The  thought  of  his  devious  dealings 
which  she  had  condemned  and  excused  alternately 
for  so  long  a  time  stung  her.  And  he  might  have 
been  so  different !  It  was  a  realization  of  how  much 
she  wished  him  to  be  different  that  worked  like 
madness  in  her  brain. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Babington,"  she  said 
coldly,  "in  regard  to  my  motives.  I  did  not  propose 
to  claim  my  part  of  your  fortune  because  I  felt  that 
you  had  earned  it  all." 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  as  if  she  had  struck 
him  a  blow.  For  a  moment  their  eyes  contended 
with  an  intense  hostility  that  verged  upon  hatred. 
They  had  been  so  near  to  love  that  the  quarrel  could 
not  be  less  than  fatal.  All  the  strange  irritation 
which  each  had  been  able  to  arouse  in  the  other  at 
times  was  concentrated  at  that  moment.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak,  but  could  think  of  no  justifica- 
tion, no  explanation,  that  would  not  appear  specious 
or  undignified  in  the  face  of  such  a  taunt.  He 
searched  her  face  to  discover  some  possibility  of  a 
mistake,  some  sign  of  yielding,  but  found  none. 

She  could  have  recalled  him  while  he  took  his  hat 
and  coat  in  the  hall,  but  she  stood  motionless  until 
the  street  door  closed  behind  him,  and  then  sank 
into  a  chair.  For  a  long  time  she  stared  into  the 
fire,  her  hands  locked  in  her  lap,  and  listened  to  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel.  She  was  think- 


362  THE   TORCH 

ing  that  if  they  had  been  married,  or  even  engaged, 
their  relationship  would  have  stood  the  strain  of 
the  quarrel,  but  now  it  was  fatal.  She  was  glad 
she  had  not  called  him  back,  for  it  was  better  that 
the  strange  fever  should  end.  The  possibility  of 
love  between  them  was  gone  forever,  and  now  she 
realized  that  it  had  never  really  existed.  A  new, 
exhilarating  sense  of  freedom  and  awakening  stole 
over  her,  and  she  began  to  smile. 

"To  think,"  she  mused,  "that  the  thing  which  de- 
cided my  fate  was  just  a  flash  of  my  awful  temper !" 

She  arose  and  pushed  the  chairs  about,  laughing 
lightly,  nervously,  with  a  growing  appreciation  of 
the  fact  that  her  besetting  sin  had  given  her  the  key 
of  the  fields.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  stay  within 
doors.  The  scene  through  which  she  had  passed 
left  her  feverish,  longing  for  action  and  freedom  and 
the  open  air.  Without  any  definite  idea  as  to  her  des- 
tination she  put  on  her  wraps  and  left  the  house. 

The  November  night  was  cool  and  clear  and  dark. 
She  looked  up  at  the  Milky  Way,  a  long  streak  of 
gold  dust  flung  across  the  zenith  of  the  sky,  and 
felt  that  she  had  never  before  realized  the  joy  of 
being  alone.  For  once  she  was  not  awed  nor  de- 
pressed by  the  solemnity  of  nature,  but  rather 
calmed  and  refreshed.  It  was  still  early  in  the  eve- 
ning, and  as  she  reached  the  main  street  she  saw  a 
crowd  of  people  entering  the  car  that  was  bound  for 
the  capital.  She  did  not  remember  that  she  had 
taken  her  purse  with  her,  but  she  noticed  now  that 
it  was  in  her  hand.  Yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse 
she  stepped  aboard  the  car  and  sank  into  a  seat  by 


THE    PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST    363 

the  door,  still  absorbed  in  her  reflections.  Presently 
she  began  to  notice  that  in  all  that  crowded  car 
there  were  very  few  whom  she  knew.  It  was  not 
the  set  that  went  to  the  capital  for  the  theater  or 
opera.  She  heard  them  speaking  of  Plow,  and 
learned  that  this  was  the  night  of  the  formal  cele- 
bration of  his  election.  Then  she  remembered  that 
she  had  seen  the  signs  of  preparation  that  morning 
on  her  shopping  expedition,  and  resolved  that  she 
would  watch  the  parade. 

The  main  street  of  the  capital  was  already  con- 
gested with  a  countless  multitude  of  people,  and 
the  police  were  busily  engaged  in  clearing  a  lane  for 
the  columns  that  were  momently  expected.  She  had 
scarcely  been  pushed  up  to  the  curb  when  a  distant 
sound  of  music  came  to  her  ears.  Then  the  head  of 
the  procession  turned  a  corner  some  blocks  below, 
with  a  simultaneous  burst  of  sound  and  light.  The 
colored  fires  flashed  along  the  fronts  of  the  build- 
ings, and  the  brazen  blare  of  trombones  and  cor- 
nets bore  down  on  her.  Louder  and  louder  the 
volume  of  sound  reverberated  against  the  long  rows 
of  shimmering  windows.  The  feet  of  the  crowd 
kept  time  to  the  march;  the  pavement  thrilled  with 
the  booming  of  the  great  drum ;  even  the  stars,  dim 
and  spectral  above  that  narrow  gorge  of  tumultu- 
ous life,  seemed  to  quiver  and  shake  to  the  sound  of 
the  bugles. 

Tramping  along  in  the  wake  of  the  band  came  a 
company  of  working  men  in  swaying,  uneven  ranks, 
their  caps  ornamented  with  little  flags.  Somehow 
the  warlike  music  had  so  stirred  Mrs.  Van  Sant's 


364  THE   TORCH 

imagination  for  the  moment  that  she  half  expected 
to  see  a  regiment  of  soldiers,  straight  lines  of  bright 
uniforms  and  gleaming  bayonets,  and  her  heart  mis- 
gave her  strangely  at  sight  of  that  dingy  rabble. 
They  marched  as  they  had  come  from  the  shop  or 
the  field,  with  little  attempt  at  keeping  the  line, 
smoking  their  pipes,  talking,  laughing,  or  solemn 
with  a  sense  of  their  triumph.  To  one  of  her  ex- 
perience with  public  pageants  it  seemed  a  sorry 
army,  especially  in  connection  with  the  triumphant 
paean  by  which  it  was  heralded.  There  were  men 
of  all  ages,  from  the  graybeard  to  the  boy,  but  all 
wrere  alike  in  a  certain  pallor  of  countenance  and  a 
suggestion  of  hard  usage.  For  the  first  time  she 
realized  the  true  nature  of  Plow's  constituents. 
These  were  the  men  that  mended  the  streets,  that 
moved  her  furniture  or  plastered  her  house,  that 
passed  her  at  evening  with  sooty  faces.  She  tugged 
nervously  at  her  glove,  conscious  of  being  mortified 
for  his  sake. 

She  began  to  grow  weary,  when  she  realized  that 
the  procession  had  only  begun.  As  rank  after  rank 
swung  by,  a  conception  of  the  people's  power 
dawned  upon  her.  The  learned  might  theorize,  the 
bosses  plot,  the  rich  despise,  but  the  people,  when 
they  chose,  could  sweep  all  these  aside  like  straws 
and  have  their  will.  She  began  to  be  ashamed  of 
her  shame. 

Suddenly  the  piccolo  and  fife  cut  the  air  with  the 
shrill  notes  of  Yankee  Doodle,  and  she  smiled  with 
a  peculiar  pride  and  understanding.  A  picture  out 
of  her  school  history  flashed  into  her  mind;  an  old 


THE    PROSPERITY   OF   A   JEST    365 

man  beating  a  drum,  his  white  hair  flying  in  the 
wind,  marching  into  battle  between  his  son  and 
grandson,  who  were  playing  the  fife  on  either  side. 
She  thought  it  must  have  been  at  the  battle  of  Ben- 
nington,  and  remembered  Molly  Stark,  who  would 
have  been  a  widow  had  the  day  been  lost. 

"I  always  begin  to  feel  wildly  patriotic  when  I 
hear  Yankee  Doodle  on  the  fife,"  she  murmured  to 
herself.  "I  want  to  skip  like  rams,  the  way  the 
mountains  do  in  the  Psalms." 

She  had  an  appreciation  of  something  absurd  and 
homely,  yet  splendid  and  heroic.  The  common  peo- 
ple never  stirred  her  scorn;  she  was  too  genuine  an 
aristocrat  for  that.  It  was  the  pretenders  in  her 
own  station  that  irritated  her.  The  people  in  the 
mass  were  to  be  reckoned  with,  and  ruled  for  their 
own  good.  The  presence  of  the  flag  everywhere  in 
the  procession  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  be- 
gan to  see  that  this  was  the  workers'  revolutionary 
war.  A  dray  passed  by,  filled  with  young  children, 
and  over  their  heads  she  read  the  sentence :  When 
we  are  men  we  will  do  as  our  fathers  did.  For  the 
first  time  she  realized  that  this  was  the  battle  of  her 
generation,  confused  and  inchoate  as  yet,  but  rolling 
on  to  great  and  definite  ends.  Already  its  leaders 
were  coming  forth.  She  remembered  Plow's  hope- 
ful words  when  her  heart  had  been  incredulous  and 
hard,  and  felt  now  that  he  was  right.  He  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  Lincoln  type  of  statesman,  a  man  des- 
tined to  be  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  new  industrial 
order.  In  her  present  mood  Babington's  pretentions 
seemed  almost  pitiful  compared  with  his  rival's 


366  THE   TORCH 

deeper  purpose,  and  she  watched  for  Plow's  appear- 
ance with  a  heightened  interest  that  was  becoming 
almost  breathless. 

The  faces  along  the  sidewalk,  the  clustered  heads 
at  the  windows,  lighted  up  by  intermittent  bursts  of 
colored  fire,  were  turned  expectantly  in  one  direc- 
tion. A  cheer,  arose  far  down  the  street  and  rolled 
between  the  inclosing  walls.  He  was  coming  at 
last.  The  various  unions,  each  with  its  own  ban- 
ner and  float,  had  been  filing  by  interminably,  until 
the  spectators  had  lost  the  weary  count.  By  a  com- 
mon impulse  the  great  crowd  surged  forward. 

An  immense  cone  of  wheat  and  corn,  wreathed 
in  ribbons  and  surrounded  by  allegorical  figures, 
came  tottering  along  on  its  huge  float,  but  no  one 
paid  attention  to  it  now.  Then  was  heard  the  ring 
of  iron  against  iron,  the  men  of  the  Blacksmiths' 
Union  beating  their  anvil  chorus.  No  horses  in  the 
procession  seemed  to  move  so  proudly  as  those 
which  drew  that  dray,  and  no  other  company 
stepped  along  with  such  a  firm  and  swinging  stride, 
for  they  were  Plow's  own  comrades,  the  men  from 
whose  ranks  he  had  sprung.  They  cheered  contin- 
ually, waving  their  hats  and  shouting  their  hero's 
name.  The  enthusiasm  was  infectious  and  the  cry 
was  taken  up  by  thousands. 

The  red  lights  blazed  once  more  and  showed  him 
in  his  carriage,  calm,  exalted,  bare-headed,  bowing 
from  side  to  side  with  his  pleased  and  kindly  smile. 
He  appeared  a  giant  compared  with  the  men  that 
sat  beside  him,  and  the  people  felt  that  he  was  their 
Saul,  destined  to  break  the  yoke  of  the  Philistines. 


Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  touched  by  his  dignity,  his  ex- 
altation, his  great  simplicity  and  goodness.  Even 
now,  when  she  saw  that  he  had  won  what  many  a 
man  she  thought  more  clever  could  not  win,  it  was 
these  qualities  that  impressed  her  most.  She  saw 
the  absurd  bouquet  of  pink  roses,  tied  with  long  pink 
ribbons,  which  some  of  his  admirers  had  thrust  into 
his  hands,  and  was  amused  to  think  of  roses  in  con- 
nection with  Professor  Plow. 

Suddenly,  from  somewhere  behind  her,  a  group 
of  students  gave  the  university  cheer,  followed  by 
Plow's  name.  He  turned  and  smiled  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sound,  with  that  friendly  wave  of  the 
hand  they  knew  so  well.  For  one  moment  his  eyes 
met  those  of  the  woman  he  loved,  but  he  was  carried 
past  before  she  could  be  sure  that  he  distinguished 
her  from  the  crowd  in  which  she  stood.  Presently 
she  noticed  that  the  procession  was  at  an  end,  and 
that  the  cars  were  running  once  more.  She  was 
conscious  of  her  temerity  in  coming  so  far  from 
home  alone  and  took  a  car  for  Argos  almost  in  a 
panic.  Never  had  rest  been  so  grateful  to  her.  Her 
capacity  for  emotion  was  gone,  and  she  welcomed 
the  oblivion  of  a  dreamless  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

*THE   LOST   LEADER 

There  was  much  of  the  bully,  but  none  of  the 
bulldog,  in  President  Babington's  nature,  and  Mrs. 
Van  Sant's  taunt  struck  so  deep  that  he  went  to  his 
office  the  following  morning  a  changed  man.  Hav- 
ing lost  her,  he  felt  for  the  time  that  he  had  lost  all. 
The  struggle  against  Plow  no  longer  seemed  worth 
while.  The  plan  of  buying  the  regents  was  too  un- 
certain, too  much  fraught  with  the  danger  of  dis- 
covery and  scandal.  Besides,  his  enemy  had  al- 
ready guessed  his  intention  and  was  forearmed. 

And  why,  he  asked  himself,  should  he  spend  so 
much  money  to  retain  a  position  full  of  drudgery 
and  friction?  Why  should  he  not  pull  up  stakes 
and  leave  a  place  made  distasteful  to  him  by  the 
scorn  of  the  woman  he  loved  and  by  the  ingratitude 
of  the  institution  he  had  served  so  well?  As  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  workmen's  hammers  from 
Tupper  Hall  and  thought  of  all  he  had  done  for  the 
university,  he  was  moved  to  wonder  at  the  thank- 
lessness  of  the  board  of  regents  and  the  hatefulness 
of  the  faculty.  He  could  not  understand  the  an- 
tagonism which  his  hardness  of  heart,  his  selfish- 
ness, his  snobbishness,  had  aroused  in  so  many 

368 


THE   LOST   LEADER  369 

breasts,  because  he  did  not  know  that  he  possessed 
those  characteristics.  His  sophistries  had  made  him 
his  own  most  ardent  admirer,  and  he  felt  that  if  the 
constituents  of  the  university  did  not  appreciate  him 
the  loss  was  theirs. 

He  did  not  love  the  place,  and  experienced  no  sad- 
ness at  the  possibility  of  breaking  old  ties.  Rather, 
he  was  scornful  of  the  big,  overgrown,  plebeian  high 
school.  He  had  never  been  loyal  to  the  teaching 
profession,  though  it  was  his  own.  He  had  always 
shared  the  world's  contempt  for  the  pedagogue,  and 
had  felt  inferior  in  the  face  of  commercial  success 
and  social  power.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  tried 
to  give  the  university  tone,  to  bring  in  gentlemen 
and  men  of  the  world,  but  they  preferred  Everett 
and  his  kind,  and  the  papers  had  rewarded  him  with 
lampoons. 

Perhaps  he  might  retain  his  position  in  spite  of 
Plow  by  making  large  donations  to  the  university, 
but  at  the  thought  of  such  a  method  of  bribery  he 
smiled  scornfully.  He  1-ad  longed  for  wealth  all  his 
life,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  throwing  it  away, 
now  that  his  dream  was  realized.  Why  should  he 
labor  in  that  obscure  western  town,  far  from  the  na- 
tion's greatest  culture  and  wealth  ?  With  Mrs.  Van 
Sant  as  his  wife,  the  game  would  have  been  delight- 
ful and  full  of  interest;  but  now  he  sickened  with 
mortification  to  remember  his  fool's  paradise  of  yes- 
terday. He  had  no  thought  of  asking  her  to  re- 
consider her  decision,  for  his  anger  against  her  was 
greater  than  his  pain  at  her  loss.  He  hated  her  for 
her  insult,  and  not  once  did  he  question  the  methods 


370  THE   TORCH 

by  which  he  had  won  his  fortune  or  his  right  to  its 
possession.  The  fact  of  possession  was  the  only 
thing  he  cared  to  contemplate. 

His  mind  ran  over  the  possibilities  of  the  future, 
should  he  decide  to  resign.  He  remembered  a 
classmate,  now  a  senator  at  Washington  and  a 
friend  of  the  president.  Why  should  he  not  go  to 
the  capital  of  the  nation  to  live?  He  had  influence 
and  wealth.  He  was  master  of  French  and  Ger- 
man, he  had  been  much  abroad,  and  was  fitted  to 
represent  his  country  as  minister  at  Berlin,  or  Paris, 
or  London.  What  was  the  presidency  of  a  state 
university  compared  with  such  a  position?  He 
would  look  back  upon  it  then  as  a  stepping-stone  by 
which  he  had  risen  to  higher  things.  Plow  would 
suffer  political  eclipse,  Everett  would  sink  under 
the  burden  of  his  office, 'but  he  would  be  too  far  re- 
moved even  to  care  to  rejoice  greatly  in  their  down- 
fall. 

With  characteristic  impulsiveness  his  decision 
was  made.  A  sense  of  adventure  stirred  within 
him.  He  pushed  the  papers  on  his  desk  aside  and 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  feeling  of  extraor- 
dinary relief.  He  was  free  at  last. 

A  few  mornings  later  Lee  walked  into  Judge 
Gates'  office  in  the  capital,  holding  a  copy  of  The 
Times  in  his  hand  which  contained  the  announce- 
ment of  Babington's  resignation  from  the  presi- 
dency of  the  university,  and  of  his  own  election  to 
the  position.  He  was  somewhat  breathless,  and  his 
face  was  pale. 


THE   LOST   LEADER  371 

"Is  this  a  misprint,  Judge,"  he  asked,  "or  a  prac- 
tical joke?  Surely,  Everett  was  meant." 

The  regent  swung  round  in  his  chair  and  looked 
at  his  protege  as  affectionately  as  he  ever  looked  at 
a  human  being. 

"I  admire  your  gratitude,  young  man,"  he  said. 
"I  reserve  my  practical  jokes  for  my  enemies.  Have 
you  got  any  complaint  coming?" 

"Everybody  supposed  that  Plow  had  booked  Ev- 
erett for  the  place,  when  we  heard  the  rumor  of 
Babington's  resignation,"  Lee  explained.  "I  haven't 
got  my  bearings  yet.  I  dropped  everything  and 
came  right  over  to  see  about  it." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  Plow  and  Everett,"  the 
judge  answered  with  his  dry  smile.  "Plow's  satis- 
fied; I  saw  to  that.  You  stood  up  for  him,  and  he 
didn't  forget  it.  Of  course,  I'm  sorry  for  Everett, 
but  it  can't  be  helped.  He  ought  to  have  been  made 
president  ten  years  ago,  perhaps,  but  not  now.  This 
is  the  age  of  young  men.  The  position  would  kill 
Everett  in  a  year  or  two,  but  you  take  things  more 
easily.  You  have  a  sense  of  humor,  you  don't  give 
a  damn  for  the  applause  or  caterwauling  of  the  gal- 
lery, and  you  understand  the  ropes  thoroughly.  In 
a  word,  you'll  do,  so  I  don't  want  another  word 
from  you." 

"Not  even  of  thanks  ?"Lee  asked,  smiling. 

The  judge  took  his  outstretched  hand  with  a  cer- 
tain ceremonious  manner  which  made  Lee  feel  that 
he  had  been  admitted  to  a  new  footing  with  the  old 
politician  unknown  before. 


372  THE   TORCH 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  talk  this  thing 
over  with  you  a  little.  I  know  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself.  You'll  rise  to  this  position  as  easily 
as  you  rose  to  your  professorship,  and  you  won't 
suffer  from  growing  pains,  either."  He  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  chuckled.  "I  wish  you  could  have 
been  present  at  the  meeting  of  the  board.  Babing- 
ton  didn't  come;  he  sent  his  resignation  by  a  mes- 
senger. I  was  elected  chairman,  and  began  opera- 
tions by  insisting  upon  its  immediate  acceptance." 

"Were  they  reluctant?"  Lee  asked. 

"Well,  yes,  at  first.  They  had  an  idea  he  would 
give  the  university  some  of  the  money  he  cozened 
that  old  woman  out  of,  but  I  knew  better.  I  told 
them  that  if  they  would  accept  the  resignation  and 
put  in  my  man  I'd  give  the  university  five  hundred 
thousand  dollars  to-morrow;  but  if  they  wouldn't 
I'd  resign  from  the  board  and  wash  my  hands  of  the 
whole  business.  So  the  thing  was  done." 

For  a  few  moments  Lee  was  too  much  amazed  to 
speak.  He  did  not  doubt  his  ability  to  make  an  ac- 
ceptable president,  but  he  did  not  like  to  think  that 
his  election  was  purchased.  In  fact,  the  transac- 
tion looked  like  bribery,  pure  and  simple.  He  was 
not  unacquainted  with  the  ethics  of  men  like  Judge 
Gates  and  the  late  Lemuel  Tupper.  For  one  mo- 
ment he  wavered.  Ought  he  to  accept?  With  all 
his  fine  scorn  of  the  power  of  money,  it  was  money 
that  had  purchased  him  the  opportunity  of  his  life. 
As  he  looked  at  the  satisfied  and  triumphant  face  of 
the  old  man  opposite  him  he  felt  the  impossibility 
of  refusing.  Such  an  attitude  would  seem  quixotic 


THE   LOST   LEADER  373 

and  self-righteous.  There  were  good  arguments  on 
both  sides  of  the  question,  but  he  did  not  stop  to 
weigh  them  then. 

"Are  you  sure  you  will  be  satisfied  with  your  bar- 
gain ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  a  pretty  shrewd  judge  of  values,"  the  regent 
returned.  "Nobody  cozened  me  out  of  it.  I  had 
been  thinking  of  doing  something  of  the  kind  for  a 
long  time.  I  haven't  got  anybody  I  care  to  leave 
my  money  to,  and  I  can't  expect  to  last  much 
longer." 

Lee  knew  that  the  disease  which  had  driven  the 
judge  to  Europe  was  incurable.  His  heart  con- 
tracted with  pity,  but  the  regent  was  not  a  man 
whom  one  could  commiserate.  He  was  like  an  old 
eagle  dying  by  inches,  his  cold  undaunted  eyes  fixed 
haughtily  upon  the  passing  world. 

"I'm  an  old  bottle,"  he  continued,  "and  you  can't 
fill  me  up  with  new  wine."  His  leathern  face 
wrinkled  in  a  smile  of  sardonic  humor.  "Perhaps 
it's  because  I  put  too  much  old  wine  into  myself 
when  I  was  a  new  bottle,  but  I  don't  complain.  I 
never  kicked  at  the  price  I  had  to  pay  for  anything 
I  wanted."  As  they  shook  hands  again  at  parting, 
he  looked  up  with  a  sudden  thought. 

"I  needn't  tell  you  that  you  are  the  president  of 
the  university,  not  I.  Of  course,  people  will  talk, 
but  they'll  soon  find  out  that  you  are  running  the 
thing  yourself.  You  don't  owe  me  anything,  you 
understand." 

Lee  knew  the  judge  too  well  to  question  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  declaration.  He  realized  for  the  first 


374  THE   TORCH 

time  the  responsibility  that  was  thrown  on  him 
and  he  straightened  instinctively.  One  could  see  in 
imagination  how  the  years  would  deal  with  him, 
mellowing  and  strengthening  him  until  he  fulfilled 
the  promise  of  his  brilliant  and  audacious  youth. 
Some  such  thought  passed  through  the  old  man's 
mind,  and  he  smiled. 

"You  look  the  president  already,  Nicholas,"  he 
said  proudly.  "Your  father  would  have  been 
pleased  with  this.  Good  by,  and  good  luck  to  you." 

Lee  was  almost  too  deeply  moved  to  speak  his  ap- 
preciation. As  he  looked  back  and  saw  the  judge 
smiling  at  him  from  the  door  he  was  doubly  glad 
that  he  had  not  wounded  him  by  questioning  his 
methods. 

When  he  entered  the  campus  an  hour  later  he  was 
congratulated  by  passing  colleagues,  and  a  secret 
amusement  stirred  within  him  at  a  realization  of 
the  glamour  of  position.  He  was  not  unconscious 
of  it  in  himself,  and  he  was  decidedly  conscious  of 
it  in  others.  He  had  never  been  blinded  by  any 
man's  office  to  his  weaknesses  and  faults  as  a  man, 
and  he  expected  judgment  only  on  his  merits.  Yet 
there  was  something  in  the  office  itself  that  he  had 
not  divined, — a  certain  new  attitude  of  mind,  an  in- 
spiration, a  larger,  more  impersonal  point  of  view. 
If  office  could  not  make  an  insignificant  man  im- 
pressive, it  could  certainly  give  great  opportunities 
to  one  who  deserved  them. 

A  crowd  of  students  cheered  him  as  he  passed  up 
the  steps  on  his  way  to  Babington's  room.  He  was 
the  first  alumnus  of  the  university  to  become  its 


THE   LOST   LEADER  375 

president  and  his  election  appealed  to  the  patriotism 
of  the  undergraduates. 

Babington  rose  from  his  chair  and  shook  his  hand 
affably. 

"I  congratulate  you  and  the  university,  Mr.  Lee," 
he  said.  "The  board  has  made  no  mistake." 

"Thank  you,"  Lee  replied.  "You  treated  us  to  a 
surprise  and  the  board  treated  me  to  one.  I  expect 
to  wobble  in  your  shoes." 

In  reality  he  hoped  to  fill  the  presidential  shoes 
snugly,  and  he  smiled  at  the  almost  imperceptible 
expansion  of  the  chest  with  which  Babington  re- 
ceived his  conventional  compliment.  He  had  never 
known  the  man's  manner  to  be  quite  so  patronizing 
as  at  the  present  moment.  He  reached  slowly  for 
his  silk  hat  and  fitted  it  nicely  on  his  head.  Then  he 
stood  drawing  on  his  gloves,  his  cane  under  his  arm, 
his  round  eyes  fixed  in  a  speculative  stare  on  his 
successor.  He  was  wondering  whether  he  were 
looking  at  the  future  husband  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant. 

"No  one  understands  the  machinery  of  the  uni- 
versity better  than  yourself,  Mr.  Lee,"  he  said,  "and 
Mr.  Watkins  can  tell  you  where  to  lay  your  hand  on 
anything  you  want.  My  business  in  the  east  is 
urgent,  so  I  will  bid  you  good  by  and  wish  you  suc- 
cess now." 

Lee  could  not  fail  to  see  his  evident  intimation 
that  his  business  in  the  east  was  much  more  im- 
portant than  the  occupation  he  was  just  leaving.  As 
they  shook  hands  he  noticed  that  Babington  had 
already  put  on  his  glove.  It  was  a  small  point  of 
discourtesy,  but  Lee  believed  it  to  be  intentional. 


376  THE   TORCH 

He  was  not  disposed  to  bandy  more  compliments 
and  did  not  return  the  good  wishes. 

Babington  was  passing  from  the  room  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Watkins  standing  forlornly  apart, 
and  he  paused  to  bid  him  farewell. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  shall  let  Mr.  Lee  keep  you," 
he  said  distinctly.  "I  may  have  need  of  your  serv- 
ices in  Washington;  so  we  will  call  it  au  revoir  in- 
stead of  good  by." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Watkins  stammered.  "I 
should  like  nothing  better."  He  stood  looking  after 
his  patron's  retreating  figure,  his  brown  eyes  dim 
with  tears.  To  him  Babington  was  a  great  man, 
and  his  service  had  been  a  labor  of  love. 

"Mr.  Watkins,"  said  Lee,  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone,  "I  want  you  to  feel  that  your  present  position 
is  secure  as  long  as  you  wish  to  keep  it,  but  if  some- 
thing better  presents  itself  you  must  consult  your 
own  interests.  There  isn't  much  of  a  future  in  a 
private  secretaryship  of  this  kind,  and  perhaps  you 
will  decide  to  go  on  with  your  graduate  studies. 
But  we  will  discuss  that  question  later." 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  his  predecessor  had  just 
left.  The  strain  of  the  morning  had  been  greater 
than  he  imagined,  and  he  was  glad  to  rest.  He  felt 
that  he  had  lived  a  long  life  in  a  few  short  hours. 
As  he  glanced  from  the  window  he  saw  Babington 
descend  the  steps  and  enter  his  carriage,  apparently 
oblivious  of  the  lounging  students,  who  greeted  his 
departure  with  silence  and  an  interchange  of  signifi- 
cant smiles.  The  new  president  wondered  whether 
they  felt  that  their  hero  had  deserted  them,  whether 


THE   LOST   LEADER  377 

the  scales  had  fallen  from  their  eyes,  whether  they 
knew  now  how  much  weight  to  attach  to  all  those 
fine  phrases  illustrating  the  superiority  of  the  right 
to  the  expedient. 

"Another  lost  leader,"  he  murmured,  adjusting 
his  glasses.  "Another  idol  with  clay  feet." 

He  watched  Babington  settle  himself  pompously 
on  the  cushions.  The  coachman  cracked  his  whip. 
There  was  a  rattle  of  harness,  a  whirl  of  wheels,  and 
soon  the  ex-president's  silk  hat  and  broad  shoulders 
disappeared  below  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

For  some  time  Lee  sat  alone,  conscious  of  the  in- 
terest and  excitement  on  the  campus  outside.  It 
was  now  noon,  and  the  walks  were  thronged  with 
students  and  professors  coming  from  the  class- 
rooms. He  knew  that  he  was  almost  the  sole  sub- 
ject of  conversation,  and  he  knew  his  world  too  well 
to  suppose  that  all  the  comment  was  favorable. 
Many  difficulties  confronted  him.  He  thought  of 
the  new  professors,  Babington's  henchmen,  who 
would  be  suspicious  of  his  attitude.  He  had  no  in- 
tention of  discharging  them,  but  he  resolved  to 
bring  back  those  men  whom  his  predecessor's 
course  of  action  had  exiled.  Judge  Gates'  dona- 
tion or  the  Tupper  fund  would  provide  for  that,  and 
for  an  increase  in  the  salaries  of  the  instructors. 
He  believed  that  the  judge  would  let  him  have  his 
will  in  this  matter,  for  the  regent  had  never  favored 
the  policy  of  cheapening  men  by  cheap  rewards. 
The  thought  of  Professor  Everett  was  more  dis- 
quieting. How  would  he  bear  this  second  and  final 
frustration  of  his  just  and  honorable  ambition? 


378  THE   TORCH 

It  must  have  been  bitter  to  see  the  prize  of  office 
given  to  a  stranger;  how  much  more  bitter  now  to 
see  it  purchased  for  one  of  his  old  students?  Lee 
realized  that  the  professor  really  deserved  the  honor ; 
but  he  could  not  transfer  it  to  him,  even  if  he  would. 
Judge  Gates  had  spoken  the  truth ;  the  injustice  was 
one  of  long  standing,  and  was  now  irreparable. 
Everett's  day  was  past.  That  kindly  gray  face  rose 
up  before  him  almost  reproachfully,  but  he  knew  the 
man  too  well  to  fear  his  enmity.  It  was  Mrs. 
Everett  who  would  find  it  more  difficult  to  forgive 
his  success. 

Suddenly  another  thought  smote  him  with  a  thrill 
of  pain  and  loss.  Somewhere  on  that  crowded  walk 
was  the  girl  he  would  never  see  in  the  class-room 
again.  His  position  had  raised  up  the  final  barrier 
between  himself  and  her.  He  would  never  again 
sit  at  his  desk,  conscious  of  that  sweet  face  by  the 
window  which  had  become  inexpressibly  dear  to 
him.  Of  late,  the  lectures  from  which  she  was  ab- 
sent had  seemed  listless  and  uninspired.  Why  had 
she  elected  a  course  with  him  this  second  time? 
Was  she  impersonally  interested  in  the  subject,  or 
did  she  come  because  the  subject  was  his?  He  won- 
dered whether  she  would  drift  away  from  him  for- 
ever in  the  cloud  of  misunderstanding  and  doubt 
that  now  lay  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

AT   EIGHT   TO-NIGHT 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  read  in  the  papers  that  President 
Lee's  formal  inaugural  address  would  be  delivered 
in  the  gymnasium  in  a  fortnight.  He  had  already 
taken  the  oath  of  office  and  was  president  in  fact, 
but  the  local  love  of  speechmaking  and  of  holiday 
occasions  could  not  be  denied.  All  the  university 
constituents  were  on  tiptoe  to  hear  what  he  would 
say,  and  they  felt  delightfully  sure  that  he  would 
speak  with  no  uncertain  note.  Already  his  acts 
were  speaking  for  him.  Mrs.  Tupper's  death  and 
Judge  Gates'  donation  had  put  the  university  in 
possession  of  seven  hundred  thousand  dollars.  It 
was  announced  that  the  interest  of  the  Tupper  fund 
would  be  used  for  the  increase  of  salaries  and  for 
the  support  of  retired  professors.  The  exiled  pro- 
fessors that  had  not  found  other  positions  were 
already  on  their  way  back  to  Argos.  She  read  also 
the  final  fleers  and  skits  which  The  Times  flung 
after  the  departed  president,  like  a  handful  of  fire- 
crackers to  celebrate  its  victory. 

All  this  university  gossip  was  more  or  less  inter- 
esting, but  there  was  one  name  in  the  paper  that 
stood  out  from  the  thousands  of  words  with  a  per- 

379 


sonal  and  vital  appeal  to  her  imagination,  the  name 
of  the  governor-elect.  She  read  what  his  plans 
were,  or  were  thought  to  be,  where  he  spoke  and 
what  he  said,  whom  he  had  slated  for  this  or  that 
office,  what  laws  he  would  advocate  when  the  leg- 
islature should  assemble,  what  corrupt  practices,  or 
steals,  he  would  suppress. 

As  the  days  passed,  and  he  seemed  to  forget  her, 
she  became  restless  and  depressed.  She  was  an- 
noyed to  discover  that  she  stayed  at  home  for 
fear  of  missing  him,  and  scorned  herself  for  the 
care  with  which  she  dressed  in  anticipation  of  the 
call  he  might  never  make.  Out  of  the  silence  and 
waiting  a  deeper  emotion  was  born,  and  she  wished 
he  could  know  that  she  understood  him  at  last. 

Sometimes  she  mockingly  asked  herself  how 
much  she  was  moved  by  his  success,  whether  a  vi- 
sion of  the  state  capitol,  of  the  senate  chamber  at 
Washington,  even  of  the  White  House,  did  not 
contribute  to  the  romance  with  which  she  now  in- 
vested him.  She  answered  the  question  by  frankly 
admitting  that  it  was  so.  She  had  seen  with  her 
own  eyes  his  power  over  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
and  she  knew  the  honors  that  were  in  their  gift. 
She  saw  his  qualities  now  in  the  light  of  his 
triumph.  Had  he  failed,  he  would  still  seem  the 
visionary  reformer,  but  success  had  sublimated  him 
and  invested  him  with  greatness. 

She  was  far  from  apologizing  to  herself  for  this 
change  of  view.  It  was  the  right  of  every  woman 
to  judge  among  the  rival  aspirants  for  her  hand 
and  to  choose  the  strongest  if  she  would.  She  felt 


AT   EIGHT   TO-NIGHT  381 

that  Plow  had  won  her  by  his  deeds,  and  that  she 
ought  to  love  him  if  he  loved  her  still.  Babington 
might  charm  her,  but  he  could  never  appeal  to  her 
imagination  again.  If  there  had  been  something 
daring,  something  spectacular,  in  the  winning  of  his 
fortune,  she  might  have  chosen  him.  Even  if  he 
had  been  a  plunger  on  the  stock  exchange  or  a  ruth- 
less promoter,  she  might  have  forgotten  to  question 
his  methods  in  admiration  of  his  adventurous  spirit. 
But,  as  it  was,  she  was  proud  of  her  honest  burst  of 
temper. 

How  inadequate  his  charm  seemed  now!  What 
was  it  that  had  held  her?  A  trick  of  speech  and 
dress,  wholesome  good  looks,  a  feminine  strain  of 
finesse?  Or  was  she  attracted  by  spiritual  possibil- 
ities which  he  might  have  realized?  She  wondered 
at  herself  in  the  light  of  her  late  revelation.  She 
had  known  all  along  that  he  was  more  essentially 
vulgar  than  Plow,  that  he  was  a  snob,  while  Plow 
was  simply  himself.  She  must  have  known  that 
his  ways  were  devious,  and  yet  he  had  almost  made 
her  love  him.  And  when  she  compared  his  rival 
again  she  confessed  that  she  had  obstinately  resisted 
his  greater  attraction  because  his  love  was  too  deep 
for  shallow  flatteries,  because  his  absorption  in  great 
ideas  had  made  him  oblivious  of  small  refinements. 
She  laughed  at  herself  as  she  allowed  her  fancy  to 
run  on.  Here  was  a  man  that  loved  her,  whom  she 
might  love ;  she  could  add  grace  to  his  greatness. 

At  last  she  wrote  him  a  little  note  in  which  she 
asked  whether  he  intended  to  call  some  time  and 
give  her  an  opportunity  to  congratulate  him  upon 


382  THE   TORCH 

his  election.  After  the  letter  was  gone  her  peace  of 
mind  made  her  realize  how  she  trusted  him.  She 
would  never  have  dared  to  make  such  an  advance  to 
Babington  under  similar  circumstances. 

When  Plow  returned  to  his  hotel  the  next  after- 
noon, after  an  absence  of  a  few  days,  he  stood  by 
the  register  for  some  time,  holding  the  batch  of  let- 
ters the  clerk  had  given  him,  and  conversing  with  a 
little  band  of  reporters  and  political  friends.  If 
Mrs.  Van  Sant  had  seen  him  then  she  would  have 
realized  that  a  great  deal  of  her  concern  for  his  lack 
of  grace  was  gratuitous.  If  victory  had  given  her 
a  new  idea  of  him,  it  had  also  given  him  a  new  idea 
of  himself,  and  he  was  changed.  It  was  the  same 
difference  that  had  disconcerted  the  president  at 
their  meeting  the  morning  after  the  election.  He 
was  the  governor-elect,  the  man  of  the  future. 
Neither  he  nor  the  men  about  him  were  oblivious  of 
this  fact,  and  yet  there  was  no  suggestion  of  pom- 
posity in  his  bearing. 

He  gave  an  epigram  to  the  reporters,  and  they 
went  into  gales  of  laughter  as  they  caught  the 
whimsical  gleam  of  his  eyes.  For  each  of  the 
friends  who  had  helped  him  to  perfect  his  political 
organization,  his  captains  of  hundreds  and  of  thou- 
sands, he  had  a  personal  word.  They  were  proud 
when  he  addressed  them  by  their  given  names,  but 
he  was  always  Mr.  Plow  to  them  when  he  met  them 
face  to  face,  however  much  they  might  indulge  in 
the  affectionate  nicknames  of  "old  Dan,"  or  "the 
professor,"  behind  his  back.  There  was  not  one  of 
them  who  would  not  go  to  the  stake  to  keep  him  in 


AT   EIGHT   TO-NIGHT  383 

the  position  they  had  worked  so  hard  to  place  him 
in. 

As  he  talked  with  them  he  looked  over  his  letters 
casually,  contriving  with  the  skill  of  a  politician  to 
do  two  things  at  once  without  seeming  to  do  so. 
The  little  note  was  lost  between  the  larger  envelopes 
and  slipped  to  the  floor  unnoticed.  One  of  the  re- 
porters recovered  it  and  handed  it  to  him  with  the 
quick  intuition  of  his  kind  in  regard  to  its  peculiar 
significance.  He  was  gratified  when  he  saw  the 
great  man  start  and  lose  the  thread  of  his  remarks. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  story  in  that  incident  for  some 
future  time. 

When  safe  in  his  room  at  last,  Plow's  first  im- 
pulse was  to  tear  the  envelope  open  at  once,  but,  on 
second  thought,  he  cut  the  edge  carefully  with  his 
penknife  to  mar  as  little  as  possible  the  paper  her 
hands  had  touched.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  holding 
the  delicate  missive  in  his  large  hands,  and  a  mist 
gathered  in  his  eyes,  so  that  the  letters  grew  fantas- 
tic and  blurred.  He  lived  over  again  the  summer 
of  struggle  during  which  he  had  not  seen  her  face 
and  had  scarcely  dared  to  hope  that  her  love  would 
crown  his  triumph.  But  this  letter  must  mean  at 
least  one  thing.  Whether  she  loved  him  or  not,  he 
knew  that  she  did  not  love  his  rival.  She  could  not 
be  so  cruel  as  to  call  him  back  in  vain.  As  this  con- 
viction took  possession  of  him  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
resolved  to  see  her  that  night.  Partly  because  he 
had  so  much  to  say  that  a  letter  was  inadequate, 
partly  because  of  the  sudden  surge  of  his  spirits,  he 
sent  her  a  telegram.  It  was  like  a  joyous  shout 


384  THE   TORCH 

across  the  silence  that  had  lain  so  long  between 

them. 

Mrs.  Van  Sant  was  sitting  at  dinner  with  Robert 
when  the  telegram  came.  As  she  tore  open  the  en- 
velope her  thought  was  of  Babington.  She  feared 
he  might  have  done  something  desperate.  But  she 
laughed  until  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  when  she 
read  the  simple  message :  Coming  at  eight  to-night. 
D.  P.  Did  she  not  know  the  two  men  yet?  It 
was  absurd  beyond  belief. 

Robert  glanced  at  her  in  calm  surprise,  and  she 
handed  over  the  slip  of  yellow  paper,  moved  by  an 
impulse  to  confide,  even  in  him.  He  gave  her  a 
curious  smile. 

"Sorry  I  sha'n't  be  here  to  greet  him,"  he  re- 
marked dryly,  "but  I  have  an  engagement." 

"Robert,"  she  retorted,  "you  could  develop  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  wit  if  you  tried." 

In  her  own  room  she  debated  with  herself  a  long 
time  in  regard  to  the  dress  she  should  wear.  She 
smiled  to  remember  that  it  made  no  difference,  for 
her  visitor  would  not  observe  it ;  and  then  she  felt  a 
sudden  impulse  to  weep  at  the  thought  that  he 
would  love  her  just  the  same,  even  if  she  came  to 
meet  him  in  a  calico  gown  at  the  door  of  a  cottage. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  she  looked  at  her 
reflection  in  the  mirror  for  the  last  time.  Even  the 
man  that  was  waiting  downstairs  must  appreciate, 
though  unconsciously,  the  effect  of  her  brilliant 
color  and  fair  skin  against  the  black  lace.  It  gave 
her  a  little  throb  of  regret  to  reflect  that  Babington 


AT    EIGHT   TO-NIGHT  385 

had  never  seen  her  in  that  gown.  He  would  have 
found  her  irresistible  in  it. 

She  knew  his  plans  and  ambitions.  He  had  often 
spoken  of  the  fascination  of  the  diplomatic  career, 
and  she  felt  that  he  was  clever  enough  to  succeed. 
She  might  meet  him  again  some  time,  in  Washing- 
ton, as  the  wife  of  Senator  Plow,  and  she  was  sure 
that  the  sight  of  her  would  revive  the  old  longing 
in  his  heart.  He  would  never  cease  to  be  attracted 
by  her,  no  matter  whom  he  might  marry.  She  knew 
this  as  well  as  she  knew  her  own  beauty,  and  she 
knew  also  that  she  would  enjoy  his  torment  to  the 
full. 

With  an  instinctive  desire  to  postpone  the  scene 
that  awaited  her,  she  threw  open  her  window,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  moonlit  night.  She  felt  that 
her  face  was  flushed  and  her  pulse  feverish.  That 
very  afternoon  she  had  listened  to  Lee's  inaugural 
address  in  the  gymnasium.  He  had  more  than  real- 
ized her  expectations,  and  she  had  been  proud  of 
him,  but  she  did  not  regret  her  rejection  of  his  love. 
She  felt  that  there  was  more  sheer  power  in  the  man 
whose  triumph  she  had  witnessed  in  the  capital,  and 
a  more  absolute  devotion  in  his  heart  than  Lee 
could  ever  have  given  her.  As  she  looked  up  at  the 
white  disk  of  the  clock  in  the  library  tower  she  real- 
ized the  permanence  of  the  institution  compared 
with  the  brief  tenure  of  the  individual.  The  chimes, 
striking  the  quarter-hour,  seemed  to  ring  out  a  calm, 
impersonal  welcome  and  farewell.  But  solemnity 
could  never  dwell  long  in  her  heart.  She  reflected 


386  THE   TORCH 

with  a  sense  of  amusement  that  she  could  have  been 
the  wife  of  the  president  of  the  university,  or  of  a 
millionaire  diplomat,  and  that  she  would  probably 
become  the  wife  of  the  governor  of  the  state. 

When  at  last  she  stood  at  the  threshold  of  the 
drawing-room  and  saw  Plow's  great  square  figure 
rise  to  greet  her,  a  sudden  faintnes's  made  her  pause. 
She  stood  a  moment,  her  hands  grasping  the  dark 
curtains  on  each  side,  a  brilliant  picture  against 
the  dark  background.  She  saw  the  light  leap  into 
his  eyes,  and  felt  that  he  did  appreciate  the  gown 
after  all.  Then  she  swept  forward  with  her  most 
charming  smile. 

"You're  looking  very  well  after  your  campaign," 
she  said.  "I  should  think  you  would  be  a  perfect 
wreck,  but  I  remember  you  once  told  me  you  en- 
joyed it." 

She  endeavored  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his 
grasp  and  to  sink  into  a  chair,  but  the  effort  was  un- 
availing. 

"No,  no,"  he  cried  in  a  kind  of  agony  of  protest, 
"I  can't  let  you  go  yet.  I  can't  sit  here  and  talk  of 
other  things  when  I  care  for  only  one." 

She  saw  that  he  would  deny  her  all  the  delicate 
approaches  a  woman  loves,  but  she  could  not  resist 
the  passion  of  his  appeal.  Her  heart  was  touched 
by  his  suffering  so  that  she  almost  forgot  to  think 
of  herself,  and  she  smiled  with  a  suggestion  of  sur- 
render that  gave  him  hope. 

"When  I  left  you  with  him  that  night,"  he  went 
on,  "I  felt  that  your  kindness  was  the  kindness  of 
pity.  You  were  sorry  that  I  had  been  so  awkward 


AT   EIGHT   TO-NIGHT  387 

as  to  break  the  vase,  but  that  wasn't  all.  You 
wanted  me  to  understand  that  you  were  sorry  you 
couldn't  love  me."  His  bright  eyes  searched  her 
upturned  face  in  questioning.  "I  knew  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, his  voice  deepening  with  unconscious  pathos, 
"and  yet  I  couldn't  believe  it  true.  There  was  some- 
thing in  your  eyes,  something  in  the  tone  of  your 
voice,  that  gave  me  hope.  I  staked  everything  on 
that  campaign.  You  know  how  I  love  the  things  I 
fought  for,  and  yet  it  was  for  you,  more  than  for 
them,  that  I  was  fighting.  It  was  the  thought  of 
you  that  made  it  possible  and  gave  a  kind  of  glory 
to  it  all.  It  was  you  who  made  me  win." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  she  asked  softly,  "that  I 
deserve  as  much  credit  as  that?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "it  was  you;  it  must  have 
been  you.  I  found  I  could  move  men  as  I  had  never 
moved  them  before.  The  power  grew  up  in  me,  like 
something  not  myself,  something  I  only  held  in 
keeping,  something  you  had  given  me.  That  is 
what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  to-night.  I  dared  to  think 
you  could  not  have  called  me  back  in  vain,  that  you 
could  not  be  so  cruel.  I  dared  to  hope  that  you 
loved  me."  Something  in  her  eyes  made  him  pause. 
"You  do!"  he  cried.  "At  last!" 

He  lifted  her  masterfully  in  his  strong  arms  as  if 
she  were  a  child  and  kissed  her  again  and  again 
with  a  passion  she  no  longer  cared  to  resist.  Then 
she  was  sitting  beside  him,  expostulating  when  it 
was  too  late,  a  sense  of  ruffled  dignity  contending 
with  a  strange  happiness  of  which  she  had  not 
dreamed. 


388  THE   TORCH 

As  she  looked  up  at  his  face  and  realized  all  the 
suffering  she  had  caused  him,  a  wave  of  contrition 
smote  her  heart.  Even  if  she  told  him  how  mis- 
taken he  was  in  his  estimate  of  her  he  would  not 
believe  it.  It  was  for  her  to  prove  to  herself  in  the 
years  to  come  that  his  estimate  was  right.  At  the 
thought,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  placed  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  CURTAIN 

As  Lee  looked  down  on  the  familiar  scene  be- 
fore him  on  the  day  of  his  inaugural  address  he 
caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Van  Sant  in  the  audience. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  transport  him  to  the  old 
high  school  in  the  capital,  to  the  day  when  she  had 
lost  the  debate  against  him.  The  great  multitude 
that  filled  the  floor  of  the  gymnasium  was  no  longer 
formidable,  and  that  humorous  memory  stilled  the 
turmoil  of  his  mind,  as  a  powerful  precipitant  clears 
the  contents  of  a  glass  beaker.  He  could  never  be 
verbose  and  grandiloquent  with  those  clear,  dis- 
cerning eyes  upon  him,  and  he  knew  that  no  one 
would  be  more  pleased  than  she  if  he  did  well. 

His  smile  in  response  to  the  applause  that  greeted 
his  rising  was  touched  with  the  same  suggestion 
of  irony  that  had  characterized  it  when  the  students 
cheered  him  in  the  class-room  for  his  opposition  to 
his  predecessor.  He  did  not  regard  himself  as  a 
great  man ;  he  was  not  carried  away  by  an  enthusi- 
asm he  understood  so  well. 

Clearly,  logically,  dispassionately,  he  outlined  the 
policy  he  hoped  to  pursue.  He  spoke  of  Judge 
Gates'  gift  with  simple  appreciation  and  told  the 

389 


390  THE    TORCH 

uses  to  which  it  would  be  put.  As  he  went  on,  al- 
most carelessly  it  seemed,  in  his  conversational  man- 
ner, the  contrast  with  his  predecessor  became  more 
and  more  apparent.  He  stood  like  a  gentleman  at 
ease  in  the  presence  of  his  friends,  serious  but  not 
portentous,  humorous  without  flippancy. 

The  first  sensation  of  disappointment  died  away 
as  his  personality  began  to  make  itself  felt.  He 
indulged  in  no  fervid  appeals,  but  the  quality  of  his 
remarks  gained  slowly  upon  his  hearers  until  he 
held  them  by  every  word.  They  began  to  watch 
for  that  quick  smile,  for  the  turn  of  the  head  that 
showed  his  salient  profile  a  moment  against  the 
background  of  trailing  flags.  His  enemies  were 
disconcerted  as  they  saw  the  ground  for  their 
complaint  slipping  from  beneath  their  feet,  and 
his  friends  knew  that  he  had  found  himself  at  last. 
They  no  longer  felt  any  need  to  apologize  for  the 
youth  fulness  that  appeared  now  merely  as  equipoise 
and  power. 

The  constituents  of  the  university  began  to  real- 
ize his  lack  of  effort,  his  freedom  from  pretense, 
and  an  impression  of  his  staying  power  took  posses- 
sion of  them.  This  was  not  a  man  that  would 
wear  himself  out  with  friction  and  anxiety.  He 
had  struck  at  once  the  note  he  could  hold  to  the  end. 
Ten,  twenty,  thirty  years  in  the  future  he  would 
speak  in  that  same  clear-cut  and  winning  fashion, 
only  still  more  wisely  and  well ;  there  would  still 
be  that  indefinable  suggestion  of  youthfulness,  the 
youthfulness  of  a  mind  unconscious  of  effort  or 


THE   FALL   OF   THE   CURTAIN     391 

fatigue.  It  was  this  impression  of  intellectual  san- 
ity which  the  great  throng  carried  away. 

But  his  triumph,  great  as  it  seemed  to  others, 
left  him  unsatisfied.  He  had  grasped  the  secret  of 
success  with  comparative  ease,  but  the  happiness 
that  alone  could  make  it  complete  was  more  elu- 
sive. That  evening,  obeying  an  impulse  that  had 
become  a  habit,  he  went  to  see  Mrs.  Van  Sant. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  mild  witchery  of  the  Indian 
summer,  and  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  moon  be- 
ginning to  lift  a  pale  rim  above  the  eastern  horizon 
a  longing  stole  into  his  heart  which  he  felt  she 
could  not  satisfy.  Why  should  he  go  to  see  her 
to-night,  when  he  needed  something  deeper  than 
mere  friendship  could  give?  It  broke  in  upon  him 
like  a  revelation  that  he  loved  June  Hathaway  and 
must  see  her.  He  went  by  Mrs.  Van  Sant's  house 
without  even  a  passing  glance  and  continued  his 
way,  stirred  by  a  sudden  resolve. 

He  that  could  have  married  so  well  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view,  that  had  been  spoiled  by  at- 
tention, now  doubted  the  success  of  his  venture 
and  grew  faint  at  the  prospect  of  asking  a  poor  girl 
to  become  the  wife  of  the  president  of  the  univer- 
sity. Yet  it  was  a  fittingly  unconventional  sequel, 
he  mused,  to  their  unconventional  story.  She  had 
never  even  invited  him  to  call,  and  he  realized  how 
little  he  knew  of  her,  how  little  he  cared  to  know. 
He  trusted  his  own  intuition  and  experience  too 
much  to  doubt  her  quality.  His  heart  contracted 
with  pity  to  imagine  her  life  in  that  house.  He 
supposed  that  she  intended  to  teach  school  after  get- 


392  THE   TORCH 

ting  her  degree.  Most  of  the  girls  that  worked 
their  way  through  college  did  so  with  that  end  in 
view.  She  was  not  fitted  for  a  life  of  drudgery, 
and  he  resolved  that  he  would  save  her  from  it  if  he 
could.  He  was  conscious  of  the  sensation  his  ap- 
pearance in  that  house  would  cause.  It  might  be 
awkward  for  them  both,  and  he  turned  over  in  his 
mind  some  scheme  by  which  he  could  induce  her  to 
take  a  walk. 

At  the  very  gate  he  paused  to  mature  this  plan, 
when  the  door  of  the  house  opened  and  he  saw  her 
coming  down  the  steps  alone.  The  spectral  moon 
was  now  well  above  the  horizon,  pouring  a  dim 
light  down  the  street.  She  started  at  sight  of  the 
tall  figure  that  confronted  her,  and  then  stood  mo- 
tionless before  him,  like  a  spiritual  presence  con- 
jured into  existence  by  his  own  longing.  Her 
head  was  bare,  and  he  saw  her  dark,  abundant  hair 
rippling  in  the  breeze  about  her  lovely  head.  Her 
eyes  looked  up  into  his,  startled  and  wide.  He 
raised  his  hat  and  greeted  her  quietly. 

"Mrs.  Clay  is  not  at  home,"  slje  said,  breathing 
quickly.  "I  will  tell  her  you  called." 

"I  didn't  call  to  see  Mrs.  Clay,"  he  explained. 
"I  called  to  see  you." 

"Me !"  she  echoed  doubtfully.  For  a  moment  she 
hesitated,  and  he  did  not  know  whether  she  meant 
to  flee  or  to  go  back  with  him  into  the  house.  Her 
unexpected  appearance,  the  wild,  dim  beauty  of  the 
night,  so  touched  his  fancy  that  he  half  expected 
her  to  vanish.  Suddenly  he  reached  forward  and 
swung  the  gate  wide  open. 


THE   FALL   OF   THE   CURTAIN     393 

"You  were  going  somewhere  to  study,  perhaps," 
he  said  with  his  winning  smile.  "You  couldn't 
postpone  it,  could  you,  perhaps  let  it  go,  for  this 
one  evening?  I  have  wished  to  see  you  very  much." 

"I  could,"  she  answered  slowly.  Then,  as  if 
conscious  that  her  emphasis  on  the  last  word  must 
appear  ungracious,  she  added  quickly,  "Won't  you 
come  in?" 

"Not  on  a  night  like  this,"  he  protested.  "Let 
us  walk  a  little  while.  This  is  the  Indian  summer ; 
we  can't  expect  it  to  last  much  longer." 

He  saw  her  distress,  and  did  not  wonder  that  she 
misunderstood  him. 

"You  can  trust  me  this  time,  Miss  Hathaway," 
he  said  frankly.  "I  beg  you  to  believe  me,  even  if 
I  don't  deserve  it." 

He  was  touched  by  her  gracious  acquiescence. 
She  was  too  gentle,  too  well  bred,  to  doubt  his 
word. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  she  asked.  "It  really  is 
a  relief  to  be  outdoors  to-night." 

"  'Over  the  hills  and  far  away,'  "  he  answered. 
"Do  you  feel  equal  to  such  a  walk  as  that  ?" 

"I  feel  equal  to  anything,"  she  returned. 

They  went  up  the  street  together,  following  their 
long,  black  shadows.  Masses  of  crisp,  dead  leaves 
scurried  past  them,  driven  by  a  breeze  as  languor- 
ous as  that  of  springtime.  The  bare  branches  of 
the  trees  wove  swaying,  fantastic  patterns  on  the 
ground.  The  street  was  deserted,  save  for  their 
presence,  yet  the  night  was  filled  with  motion  and 
sound,  from  the  withered  leaves  that  swept  past  like 


394  THE   TORCH 

whispering-  things  to  the  dim  stars  that  seemed  to 
turn  slowly  with  the  turning  world.  It  seemed 
to  Lee  that  he  was  moving  without  conscious  effort 
through  a  world  unsubstantial  and  evanescent. 
The  line  of  hills  against  the  sky  was  unfamiliar, 
like  a  low  mountain  range  in  some  half-forgotten 
Japanese  picture,  or  the  fabrication  of  a  dream. 
He  was  subdued,  almost  sad.  The  practical,  the 
intellectual,  in  his  nature  was  lost  in  the  mysticism 
which  music  and  poetry  and  moonlight  release  from 
their  prison  in  the  inmost  soul. 

Suddenly  he  was  speaking  to  her,  almost  as  if 
his  thoughts  had  begun  to  clothe  themselves  in 
words  without. his  volition. 

"You  \vill  wonder  why  I  came  to  see  you  to- 
night, Miss  Hathaway,  but  I  couldn't  keep  from  you 
any  longer.  You  have  been  in  my  thoughts  for 
days  and  weeks  and  months.  At  first  I  wanted  to 
ask  your  forgiveness  for  kissing  you  that  night  in 
the  snowstorm,  and  then  I  realized  that  I  loved 
you." 

She  gave  a  startled  cry,  and  they  stood  facing 
each  other  beneath  the  branches  of  a  tree  that  threw 
a  wierd  tracery  of  shadow  on  her  pale  face.  He 
took  her  hands  in  his  own  and  continued  almost 
breathlessly,  his  whole  being  warm  with  a  glow  of 
tender  longing. 

"I  loved  you  that  night,  but  I  didn't  know  it. 
It  was  only  when  I  realized  that  I  should  never  see 
you  in  the  class-room  again  that  I  knew  the  truth. 
That  is  the  reason  I  came  to  see  you  to-night.  I 


THE    FALL    OF   THE    CURTAIN     395 

wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  loved  you  and  to  ask  you 
to  be  my  wife." 

He  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  but  she 
slipped  from  his  embrace. 

"No,  no!"  she  gasped.  "You  mustn't  I'm — 
I'm  engaged  already!" 

His  amazement  and  disillusion  were  so  great 
that  he  stood  motionless  and  silent,  like  one  suffer- 
ing from  a  sudden  physical  shock.  He  did  not 
know  where  to  begin,  how  to  extricate  himself. 
It  was  almost  too  wonderful  for  belief.  This  sim- 
ple and  beautiful  girl,  whose  love  he  had  thought 
to  pluck  as  he  would  pluck  a  rare  rose,  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  what  he  had  supposed;  and  yet  what 
right  had  he  to  suppose  that  he  could  have  her  for 
the  mere  asking?  Why  had  he  been  so  bewitched 
by  her  beauty  as  to  misinterpret  the  glance  of  her 
eyes,  the  fact  that  she  had  elected  his  courses  ?  His 
humiliation  was  even  greater  than  his  pain,  but 
very  little  of  his  inward  tumult  was  expressed  in 
his  words  when  at  last  he  could  find  his  voice. 

"I  have  to  ask  your  forgiveness  a  second  time, 
Miss  Hathaway,"  he  said,  "and  to  offer  my  good 
wishes  also.  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure — perhaps 
I  already  know — "  He  paused,  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought. 

"It's  Mr.  Trumbull,"  she  said,  answering  his  un- 
spoken question. 

By  mutual  consent  they  began  to  retrace  their 
steps. 

"May    I    ask   you    one   thing?"    he    demanded. 


39^  THE  TORCH 

"Were  you  engaged  when  Mr.  Trumbull  left  Ar- 
gos?" 

"No,"  she  answered  calmly,  her  emotion  passed. 
"He  wrote  to  me." 

"He  wrote  to  me  also,"  he  remarked,  "and  told 
me  of  his  new  professorship  in  the  east,  but  he 
failed  to  mention  his  greater  good  fortune." 

"It  only  happened  to-day,"  she  said  demurely. 
"I  thought  I  would  tell  you  during  our  walk,  but 
you  didn't  give  me  time." 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  was  very  much  to  blame.  I 
hope  you  will  forget  that  I  was  so  inconsiderate." 
He  talked  to  her  of  the  university  to  which  she 
was  to  go  as  Trumbull's  wife,  and  said  the  things 
the  occasion  demanded,  as  if  nothing  had  occurred 
between  them.  Then  he  left  her  where  he  had 
found  her  only  a  short  half-hour  before  and  walked 
rapidly  away.  He  left  Argos  behind,  crossed  the 
railroad  track  and  continued  his  way  along  the 
road  into  the  bare  and  silent  prairie.  Suddenly  he 
found  himself  laughing  bitterly,  lightly,  at  the 
thought  of  Trumbull's  secretiveness.  But  why 
should  he  complain?  Was  not  this  exactly  what 
he  had  wished  and  planned  ?  Trumbull  had  chosen 
the  wife  he  suggested,  after  all,  and  he  admitted  to 
himself  that  there  was  every  prospect  of  happiness 
in  the  marriage.  He  himself  was  the  only  one  to 
blame.  He  had  been  betrayed  into  folly  by  his 
love  of  poetry  and  beauty,  and  had  learned  one  of 
life's  bitter  but  wholesome  lessons.  He  even  ad- 
mitted to  himself  that  he  was  not  sure  he  loved 
Miss  Hathaway,  and  that  his  first  judgment  in  re- 


THE   FALL  OF   THE   CURTAIN     397 

gard  to  her  fitness  for  Trumbull  was  unerring. 
He  had  merely  longed  to  possess  a  beautiful  woman 
for  her  beauty,  and  that  was  all. 

It  was  late  when  he  passed  Mrs.  Van  Sant's 
house  once  more  and  met  Plow  just  coming  out  on 
the  street.  The  governor-elect  seized  him  by  the 
hand  with  a  grip  that  hurt  and  fairly  rushed  him 
along  the  sidewalk  as  he  held  his  arm.  Lee 
glanced  at  his  face  in  wonder.  He  saw  the  glow  of 
his  strange  eyes  in  the  moonlight,  and  his  heart 
failed  him. 

"You  want  to  be  congratulated,"  he  said.  "I've 
got  my  hand  in  to-night.  It  has  become  a  habit 
with  me.  Let  me  wish  you  happiness." 

Plow  laughed  outright,  like  a  boy. 

"It's  a  secret,  Lee.  Not  a  word,  you  under- 
stand, but  give  me  your  hand." 

"Take  my  left  one  this  time,"  Lee  answered. 
"My  right  is  already  crippled,  but  I  don't  mind  sac- 
rificing the  other." 

When  he  left  Plow  at  the  car  and  turned  back 
alone  he  felt  that  in  this  case,  too,  Nature  had  been 
wiser  than  he.  He  had  never  seen  a  man  quite  so 
happy  and  exultant  as  Plow,  and  knew  that  if  Su- 
sanne  had  accepted  him  he  could  not  have  experi- 
enced an  equal  rapture.  He  began  to  feel  that  he 
was  a  benevolent  spectator  of  other  people's  joy, 
a  joy  that  was  as  yet  beyond  his  own  experience, 
but  not  beyond  the  possibilities  of  the  future.  And 
he  realized  that  he  was  not  at  all  broken-hearted, 
but  strangely  happy  and  serene. 

He  had  his  work  in  the  world  to  do,  and  never 


398  THE   TORCH 

had  it  seemed  more  worth  the  doing.  His  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  scene  in  the  gymnasium  that  after- 
noon, and  the  old  boyish  love  for  his  alma  mater 
stirred  in  his  soul  with  something  of  the  compelling 
power  of  a  splendid  song.  Whatever  her  short- 
comings, the  university  seemed  to  him  the  mother 
of  heroes,  of  statesmen,  of  scholars  and  poets. 
Here  was  preparing  the  leaven  that  would  leaven 
the  great  commonwealth  in  the  days  to  come,  a 
work  in  which  he  would  have  a  large  part.  And 
to  him  personally  the  place  was  home.  In  con- 
trast to  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the  capital  where 
Plow  must  fight  his  battle,  the  little  city  seemed  a 
haven  of  rest,  with  its  scattered  houses,  its  dark, 
cool  spaces,  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  library  on 
the  hill,  the  stately  tower,  and  the  sweet  notes  of 
the  chimes  dropping  slowly  downward  like  a  bene- 
diction through  the  quiet  night. 


A  LIST  of  IMPORTANT  FICTION 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


A  BREATHLESSLY  DRAMATIC  STORY 

TOMORROW'S 
TANGLE 

By  GERALDINE    BONNER 


Tomorrow's  Tangle  is  a  story  of  life  in  California 
at  the  rime  of  the  gold  craze  in  '49  and  twenty-five 
years  later.  First  of  all,  it  is  a  good  story.  It  is 
original,  breathlessly  dramatic,  and  intensely  interest- 
ing. The  heroine  is  radiant  with  the  warmth  and 
the  beauty  characteristic  of  her  native  state.  The 
book  has  the  air  of  truth.  It  is  a  convincing  picture 
of  the  wonderfully  vital  society  of  those  picturesque 
days  of  force,  personal  vigor,  and  hardy  endeavor, 
contrasted  with  the  swift  following  days  of  conven- 
tion, repression  and  pride. 

The  book  has  the  charm  of  liberality,  tenderness 
and  the  love  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  If, 
as  has  often  been  said,  the  criteria  of  any  work  of 
literature  are  simplicity,  knowledge  of  human  nature 
and  charm,  then  Tomorrow's  Tangle  is  a  work  of 
literature. 

With  illustrations  by  Arthur  I.  Kellar 
I  zmo,  cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


The    Bobbs- Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


A  DELICIOUS  LITTLE  COMEDY 

THE 
FORTUNES  o/FIFI 

By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEA  WELL 
Author  of  Francezka  and  Children  of  Destiny 


The  Fortunes  of  Fifi  is  a  delicious  little  comedy, 
a  comedy  in  which  gay  humor,  a  pretty  sentiment 
and  some  very  amusing  situations  all  have  their 
place.  The  story  is  one  of  French  life  in  the  time 
of  Napoleon;  and  it  is  not  only  French  in  subject 
but  French  in  the  animation  of  its  plot,  and  in 
gaiety  of  spirit.  Fifi  is  a  charming  little  actress  of 
eighteen,  employed  in  a  third-rate  Parisian  theater, 
where  she  is  watched  over  vigilantly  by  her  guard- 
ian, the  factotum  of  the  theater,  an  ugly,  stiff-legged 
ex-soldier.  The  innocent  wiles  and  justifiable  tricks 
of  Fifi  are  a  delight.  She  is  full  of  invention  and,  at 
the  same  time,  artless  as  a  child. 

With  illustrations  in  color  by 

T.  de  Thulstrup 
Ornamental  cloth,  izmo.    Price  $1.50 


The    Bobbs- Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


WRITTEN  TO  ENTERTAIN 


THE  GREY  CLOAK 

By    HAROLD     MAC    GRATH 

Author  of  The  Puppet  Crown 


There  have  been  many  excellent  stories  of  love 
and  intrigue,  but  no  one  of  them  all  equals  in  depth 
of  fascination  and  subtle  plot  and  counterplot  The 
Grey  Cloak.  The  New  York  American. 

Harold  MacGrath  wrote  in  The  Grey  Cloak 
a  book  which  the  reader  could  not  lay  down  till  he 
finished.  In  a  busy  age  this  is  an  offense  against  in- 
dustry. Mr.  MacGrath  is  certainly  found  guilty 
of  it.  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

As  a  historical  romance  The  Grey  Cloak  is  simply 
immense,  as  a  work  of  fiction  it  is  of  the  highest 
pyschological  importance,  and  as  a  story  it  is  a  vol- 
ume of  sensation  as  well  as  intensity. 

The  Boston  Times. 

If  you  want  a  smoothly  written,  cleverly  con- 
structed story  of  love  and  exciting  adventure,  follow 
the  fortunes  of  The  Grey  Cloak.  The  Toledo  Blade. 

With  illustrations  by  Thomas  Mitchell  Peirce 
1 2mo,  cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


The   Bobbs-Merrill   Company,    Indianapolis 


A  STORY  OF  TODAY 


The  MAIN  CHANCE 

By  MEREDITH  NICHOLSON 


The  Main  Chance  is  a  straightforward,  honest 
picture  of  the  life  of  today  in  a  wide-awake  western 
city.  It  leaves  with  the  reader  a  pleasant  impression 
of  a  type  of  people  and  a  phase  of  life  well  worth  a 
closer  acquaintance. 

The  New  Tork  Commercial  Advertiser. 

Mr.  Nicholson's  work  is  marked  by  wholesome 

humor,  convincing  realism,  admirable  diction,  bright 

sayings,  a  good  sense  of  proportion  and  artistic  finish. 

The  Chicago  Inter  Ocean. 

The  Main  Chance  is  a  romance  of  youth,  of  love 
and  of  success  honestly  won.  It  is  a  vigorous,  buoy- 
ant, cheering  story,  full  of  crisp  humor,  forceful 
charm  and  hard  common  sense.  It  is  American  to 
the  very  core.  The  Reader. 

We  recommend  it  for  its  workmanship,  for  its 
smoothness  and  its  sensible  and  pleasant  fancies,  and 
for  its  general  charm.  The  New  Tork  Sun. 

With  six  illustrations  by  Harrison  Fisher 
i  zmo,  cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


The    Bobbs- Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


A  GOOD  DETECTIVE  STORY 

THE 
FILIGREE  BALL 


By  ANNA  KATHERINE  GREEN 
Author  of  "The  Leavenworth  Case" 


This  is  something  more  than  a  mere  detective  story  ;  it  is 
a  thrilling  romance — a  romance  of  mystery  and  crime  where 
a  shrewd  detective  helps  to  solve  the  mystery.  The  plot  is  a 
novel  and  intricate  one,  carefully  worked  out.  There  are  con- 
stant accessions  to  the  main  mystery,  so  that  the  reader  can 
not  possibly  imagine  the  conclusion.  The  story  is  clean-cut 
and  wholesome,  with  a  quality  that  might  be  called  manly. 
The  characters  are  depicted  so  as  to  make  a  living  impression. 
Cora  Tuttle  is  a  fine  creation,  and  the  flash  of  love  which  she 
gives  the  hero  is  wonderfully  well  done.  Unlike  many  mystery 
stories  The  Filigree  Ball  is  not  disappointing  at  the  end.  The 
characters  most  liked  but  longest  suspected  are  proved  not  only 
guiltless,  but  above  suspicion.  It  is  a  story  to  be  read  with  a 
rush  and  at  a  sitting,  for  no  one  can  put  it  down  until  the 
mystery  is  solved. 

Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 
I2mo,    Cloth,    Price,   $1.50 


The    Bobbs-Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


It  is  fresh  and  spontaneous,  having  nothing  of 

that  wooden  quality  which  is  becoming 

associated   with    the    term 

"  historical  novel." 


HEARTS 
COURAGEOUS 

By  HALLIE  ERMINIE  RIVES 


"  Hearts  Courageous  "  is  made  of  new  material,  a  pic- 
turesque yet  delicate  style,  good  plot  and  very  dramatic 
situations.  The  best  in  the  book  are  the  defence  of  George 
Washington  by  the  Marquis  ;  the  duel  between  the  English 
officer  and  the  Marquis;  and  Patrick  Henry  flinging  the 
brand  of  war  into  the  assembly  of  the  burgesses  of  Virgin'  ~ 
Williamsburg,  Virginia,  the  country  round  about,  and 
the  life  led  in  that  locality  just  before  the  Revolution,  form 
an  attractive  setting  for  the  action  of  the  story. 

With  six  illustrations  by  A.  B.  Wenzell 
i2mo.     Price,  $1.50 


The    Bobbs-Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


THE  GREAT  NOVEL  OF  THE  YEAP 

THE  MISSISSIPPI 
BUBBLE 

How  the  star  of  good  fortune  rose  and  set  and  rose 

again y  by  a  woman*  s  grace,  for  one 

John  Law,  of  Lauriston 

A  novel  by  EMERSON  HOUGH 


Emerson  Hough  has  written  one  of  the  best  novels  that  has 
come  out  of  America  in  many  a  day.  It  is  an  exciting  story, 
with  the  literary  touch  on  every  page. 

— JEANNETTE  L.  GILDER,  of  The  Critic. 

In  "The  Mississippi  Bubble"  Emerson  Hough  has  taken 
John  Law  and  certain  known  events  in  his  career,  and  about 
them  he  ha<j  "''oven  a  web  of  romance  full  of  brilliant  coloring 
and  cunning  work.  It  proves  conclusively  that  Mr.  Hough 
is  a  novelist  of  no  ordinary  quality. — The  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

As  a  novel  embodying  a  wonderful  period  in  the  growth  of 
America  "The  Mississippi  Bubble"  is  of  intense  interest.  As 
a  love  story  it  is  rarely  and  beautifully  told.  John  Law,  as 
drawn  in  this  novel,  is  a  great  character,  cool,  debonair,  auda- 
cious, he  is  an  Admirable  Crichton  in  his  personality,  and  a 
Napoleon  in  his  far-reaching  wisdom. — The  Chicago  American. 

The  Illustrations  by  Henry  Hutt 
I2mo,  452  pages,  $1.50 


The   Bobbs-Merrill    Company,    Indianapolis 


A    000  051  406     7 


